


Tiptoe Through the Ashes

by MikaHaeli8



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Adultery, Age Difference, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Future, Asexual Sherlock, Betrayal, Blood and Injury, Deliberate Ignorance of Series Three, Dystopia, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fantasy/ War, Fictional Lands, Gen, M/M, Minor Character Death, My First Work in This Fandom, Ordinarily Non-Offensive Phrases Used As Racial Slurs, Pre-Slash, Racially Motivated Violence, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Spying, Time Skips, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Xenophobia/ Racism, somewhat of a case fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2014-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-22 12:23:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 40
Words: 54,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/913167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MikaHaeli8/pseuds/MikaHaeli8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. War rages between Cadera and Avanzia. Recently-discharged Caderan doctor John Watson knows what he must do to survive both the war and the government. However, the true struggle doesn't start until he takes in a young Avanzian refugee, one of many that the government hunts. As a city falls, as wars rage, as a noose tightens and other relationships decay, a relationship, of sorts, grows amongst the destruction.</p><p> </p><p>mikasoze.tumblr.com</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer #1: This is a work of fiction. Any opinions/ views expressed by the various characters within do not reflect those of the author's.  
> Disclaimer #2: This is self-beta'd. Tags and rating are highly likely to change over time. Any sins (accuracy and language) are mine, for which I apologise in advance. That said, enjoy! ~Mika

That voice. It stroked his ears like a mother's comforting touch.

“Stay with me. Keep your eyes on me, can you do that? Can you do that for me?”

 _No,_ he wanted to say; something he would say if he could form the words in his mouth. _I can’t. Hurts. Hurts too much. My leg. Help, please._

Still, he dragged his eyes up to the face above his, using what was left of his willpower to keep his eyes locked onto those of the other man. He couldn’t move at all, body encased in red and white pain. _Pain._ Something he thought he’d locked away and couldn’t feel any more, which in turn was something he’d tried to do since this war began. This had now become something this stranger, this _foreigner_ , had unlocked in him; something he was no longer scared of.

He heard his name being called, a break in the man’s voice almost eradicating the last syllable. Whatever was pinning down his leg was being lifted, sending jagged knives of agony through it. Even though the man on the ground had merely glanced at it, he knew the other didn’t have the strength to lift it normally. It must have been fear that drove him, as it drives mothers to lift cars off their children.

 _Fear,_ he thought as if entertaining the concept, toying with it idly in his mind. _The things it does to people._

But he knew. Over the two and a half months they had known each other, they had gotten to know each other intimately, despite being from very different walks of life. _You should have left me to die that day,_ he thought. _You shouldn’t have risked your life for me._

Despite his abilities, however, he knew he couldn’t change what had happened. He couldn’t compartmentalise the experience as he normally could with everything else in his life. Now the other man was hurting again and it was his fault –

_No, it isn’t. None of this is your fault._

He wasn’t sure whether that was some small part of his brain or the other man telling him that. The former had by now slid his arms under the latter's shoulders and knees, lifting him, telling him to sit up. Either way, he swallowed dust down a dry throat and focused his hearing on the man leaning over him.

 _Sit. Yes. That_ is _something I can do._

He pushed himself into a sitting position using his grazed and battered hands, gritting his teeth against his throbbing palms, the other man’s hands on his back, supporting him. He was asking questions, questions too fast for him to process, let alone answer. His leg was throbbing, he was breathing in dust and one of the other man’s hands was now in his hair.

“You’re safe now. Don’t be scared. I won’t leave you.”

_Safe. I’m safe._

With that, he allowed himself to close his eyes, letting the sense-dulling darkness take him.


	2. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who read and subscribed already! Hope it's worth it. Just a quick warning: This story is going to be quite slow and John and Sherlock may not meet for a while. Thanks for sticking with it anyway. :) ~Mika
> 
> PS: 'curly-haired bastards' is used as a racial slur here. It may occur quite commonly throughout the story. I'll put it in tags now.

**_Cadera, three months earlier_ **

John’s alarm was the distant and familiar sounds of bombs dropping, as it had been for the past ten years. He sat up and rolled his shoulders, facing the window and the grey morning, fingers flexing on the edge of the mattress almost in time with the ticking clock to his right. He had no part in the bombs being dropped, or at least, not any more, having been discharged less than a year ago. Luckily, his credentials (and reputation, or so it was rumoured amongst his colleagues) had been enough to land him a job at the clinic, with occasional jobs at the hospital when needed. After all, these days, the country required plenty of medics specialising in various areas.

The veteran pushed himself off the bed when he heard another distant section of the city vanish for good, steadying himself on his cane as he made his way to the kitchen.

~x~

“ _All citizens are reminded that harbouring fugitives from Avanzia will result in…_ ”

John stopped, slightly breathless. Was it _that_ time already? He was a lot earlier than he thought. Normally he missed the first bulletin of the day, having already finished his pre-shift coffee and seen his first patient. He wondered exactly how many citizens were alive and still living in Cadera to be hear the daily bulletin. _How many had fled? How many were dead or living underground?_

He shook his head, attempting to shake the questions out of his mind. To let them take root was a dangerous thing. It led to empathy, which he had learned the hard way for the first time last year. Since then, he had seen countless friends and neighbours being dragged off, suspected of even the slightest modicum of treason or other crimes. Threat hung in the air like an even more oppressive humidity. John had learned to give the appearance of truth and calm under such crackling tension when he was directly involved in the war, but nobody else had and they had paid for it with their lives.

He reached the familiar grey building ten minutes later, ducking into the sterile lines and angles of the hospital lobby just as the TV announced that the Caderan government were approving tests for biological weaponry to be used against Avanzia. He stopped to punch in, listening to the news bulletin finish before continuing onto his office, focusing his mind on the day ahead.

~x~

**_That evening_ **

“So what you’re telling me is that those curly-headed bastards have _no_ idea what’s coming for them?”

John shifted on the stool, fingering his drink. The chatter and atmosphere of the bar had not changed in the last ten years, even if the interior and clientele had. The red-faced man to his left was too busy laughing to observe such changes, however.

“Well, it’s not easy to guess this kind of thing, David.” The doctor took a gulp from his glass before setting it down again. “Especially when you’re on the ground carrying out decisions rather than sitting behind a desk making them,”

“No, no, Johnny boy. You don’t understand.”

David Callanos was originally from Rubaria, but had worked in close connection with the Caderan Council of Defence for the last ten years. John had met him whilst actively fighting in Avanzia and had disliked him on sight but had no intention of telling him so. The man was powerful and Cadera relied on Rubaria’s military support in order to win, so John had been drawn into a kind of superficial friendship with him.

The Rubarian turned his seat, facing the bar and his drink, taking a few deep long breaths before clarifying what exactly it was that the doctor didn’t understand. “That’s the _beauty_ of it. We know and they don’t. If those weapons pass the tests, then _boom!_ No more enemy left to fight. No more Avanzia. No more war. You want that, right? You want that as much as I do.”

 _Do I?_ John finished his drink quickly, looking at his watch. Half eleven. “I have to go, David. ‘S getting late,”

The other man almost looked disappointed. “Aw, really? I thought you had a late shift tomorrow,”

“I do…Long day today, though. Didn’t finish til six. See you next time though, eh?”

“Yeah, sure.” David grabbed John into a bear hug, temporarily depriving him of his ability to breathe and aggravating his bad shoulder. “Take care, bud.”

“You too.”

John managed to extract himself from David, collect his cane and leave the bar before unwelcome thoughts entered his mind. Something about doing him in for conspiracy.

“Hey, John?”

The named man stopped, turning his head.

“How are things with Harry?”

John ran his tongue across his lips, wondering how to answer that. Truthfully, he hadn’t spoken to his sister for a long time, even when he was in Avanzia. She’s been married and divorced within a year whilst he was deployed and had sunk into alcoholism even further afterwards. He wasn’t sure what had happened to Clara. However, he wasn’t about to admit all of this to the loud-mouthed Rubarian.

He thought for a minute before replying.

“Fine. See you later, mate.”

~x~

When he got in, his phone was ringing. He frowned. People never phoned him at this hour, unless it was –

“Hello, Harry,”

“Johhnnnn!” she slurred, very loudly. “Baby bro. How _are_ you?”

John swallowed, involuntarily stiffening at the lengthening of his name. “I’m fine, Harry. Is there anything the matter?”

“Mmm…” There was a long pause, broken by a sniff. “No. No. I’m good. ‘m okay, despite what you and _Clara_ think.”

John didn't miss the bitterness that accompanied his ex-sister-in-law's name. “Right. Ah. What I meant was, why are you phoning me at…” He glanced at his watch again. “Almost midnight?”

“Jus’ checkin’ up on you! I mean, ‘s what a good sister’s _s’posed_ to do, right? Mum said you hadn’t visited her in a long…”

John winced as a slurping noise overtook the last syllable of his sister’s sentence. He wondered if Harry and their mother had reconciled, since Harry’s alcoholism had essentially meant ostracism from the family.

He made a mental note to phone their mother soon.

“A long time,” Harry said, sighing with relief. “Sh’ worried about you.”

“Okay, I’ll phone her soon,”

“Promise?”

“I promise. Harry, I have to go, but I’ll speak to you soon.”

“Mmkay.” His sister sounded like she was about to drop off.

John hung up, locking the front door and unplugging the requisite electrics before heading for bed. After all, he still had to give the appearance of normality even if it was only skin-deep in reality.


	3. Chapter Two

**_Avanzia_ **

He was on his last day of experiments regarding venom and human blood, tracking down a murderer who was using a particular type on his victims. Even though the young man wasn’t _officially_ working for the Avanzian Homicide Department, he would still assist when he was called, much to the chagrin of those who did officially work there.

At this stage, he knew the venom instantly clotted up the blood it came into contact with, it was not extracted from any animal native to Avanzia and the murderer was a native himself. His victims were from different walks of life but were all very well-travelled, which led to the rather misleading nickname given by the press of ‘The Tourist Killer’. However, the young man had no time for the media and its hysteria. Not even war had slaked their appetite for flesh – rather, it had increased it.

Stabilising the Petri dish containing the blood, he carefully drew some venom into a syringe, tapped it and squeezed a drop into the liquid below. Almost instantly, it coagulated in the exact same manner the victims’ blood had.

He smiled. _Thought so._

Just as the blood clotted, there was a dull _boom_ and the entire house shuddered, jolting him out of his seat and all the equipment off his desk. Remaining calm, he drew the curtains back enough to see that Number 49 across the street was now reduced to a pile of rubble. As soon as he saw it, the safe place he had located several weeks back in anticipation of this moment flashed into his mind. Stepping away from the chemical-stained desk and stripping off his gloves and protective goggles, he grabbed the prepared suitcase from under his desk and his coat, swinging the latter about his shoulders and swiftly exiting his room for the last time. He had both his passports – Father was supposedly from Cadera, although the young man couldn’t remember him very well – out of his brother’s insistence that he might need them someday. At present, the young man still did not _believe_ that he would need them, but since Avanzia was inching closer to desolation and he had heard reports of the Avanzian government approving tests for biological weapons (which he found _royally_ unfair, since that _was_ something he had been interested in participating in since war broke out) to be eventually used against Avanzians, he supposed he would like to increase his chances of survival.

He also had to find his brother, who was using _his_ Caderan passport to work closely with their government.

He exited the house quickly and without stopping. He had what he needed in his case – any more would weigh him down, and he could always recover his things once this war was over. He sighed as he picked his way through the rubble. It was all so tedious – why couldn’t it just _end_ and leave him to his work? Naturally, it had disturbed his world when he first heard it had broken out, and in _his_ city too, but that was ten years ago. He was a child then. Now he was a man and he was bored of it. As well as this, he was lucky enough to live in a region that had managed to miraculously remain untouched by it until now.

Spotting some guards, he quickly ducked into a doorway, pressing himself into the shadows. He glanced at his phone, which read seventeen minutes after eight. Curfew was at eight. Anyone caught outside after this time would be detained until a member of their family bailed them out, and since he had no family left in Avanzia, this would be a most unpleasant situation for him to land in.

Once he was sure they were gone, he ducked out of the doorway and continued on his way, making sure to keep as close to the shadows. Whilst the young man did not easily let himself succumb to emotion, his heart was high in his chest, the adrenaline caused by the need to stay out of sight thrumming through his veins. He ducked under low arches, stepped over debris and flattened himself against scorched and damaged walls, all the while using his memory rather than particular landmarks to work his way through the half-destroyed city.

Finally, he found it. Turning his head slowly to ensure nobody was watching him, he darted towards the entrance, coat flapping out behind him in the autumn breeze that was slowly rising, insinuating the spaces between his coat and clothes. Shivering slightly, he unlatched the door, turned, lowered himself onto the ladder and half-dragged, half-lifted his suitcase. He only allowed himself to exhale when the door was tightly shut.

He found the switch for the generator and flipped it. Almost immediately, the shelter was illuminated, revealing a makeshift bed and desk and –

“ _Molly_?”

His exclamation caused the young woman curled up in the corner to jump, startled. Flustered, she got to her feet, dusting herself down. “Sherlock! I didn’t think you’d find this place too…I mean – ”

“Yes, yes, I know,” he sighed, already bored with this conversation. Molly had been his classmate in university and he knew – not suspected, _knew_ – she harboured feelings for him that he did not return. He looked around the shelter. _There’s a third person here. Male, forty-two years old, divorced, once had a prestigious job for which he worked hard but was fired recently_ because _of his divorce. Has not been able to find work since and is too old for service._

“Oh, um.”

The young man turned his head towards Molly, eyes narrowing.

“Greg Lestrade’s here too.”

“ _Lestrade?_ ”

“Well…” She gave a nervous chuckle. “Everyone needs shelter of…of some sort from this war.”

“If you say so,” he replied crisply, striding to the bed and putting his case down, coat sliding off his shoulders. “I _had_ chosen this location several months ago upon learning that this neighbourhood had received an orange warning, though of course, the Central Warning System did not have time to upgrade the warning to red before part of my street was eradicated just now.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Molly responded quietly, head down.

“Don’t be, the house in question was devoid of inhabitants and had been for six weeks.”

“Sherlock? Is that you?”

“DI Lestrade. I see you have also taken up residence in _my_ shelter,”

The older man raised his eyebrows, hands on hips. “Of course. You would say that it was yours, wouldn’t you,” he muttered, clearing his throat. “Look, it IS big enough for the three of us, and with any luck it is only temporary, so I suggest everyone sits tight and shuts up.”

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock flopped onto the bed, opened his case and took out the daily newspaper, opening it in such a manner as to fill his entire field of vision. Fine. If he was going to be treated like a child, then he would act like a child.

But it was still _his_ shelter first.


	4. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY GOD. I can't believe it's taken me a month to realise this, but I managed to miss out an entire chapter. I'm so sorry! Damn. Here it is.

Days passed, as they tended to do, and Sherlock was making good headway on re-establishing his work. He knew now it was the venom of the _daboia russelii_ , specifically, the _siamensis_ subspecies, that the killer had used. However, due to half of Avanzia being wiped out by bombing, it was almost impossible for him to progress any further, which naturally, resulted in him being bored and loudly complaining about thus, or sulking in the corner.

Eventually, although he couldn’t speak for Molly, Lestrade had had enough. Absolutely certain he was going to regret this action, he drew out a smuggled pack of cigarettes and lighter, throwing them at the young man’s Belstaff-clad back.

He turned in surprise. “What was _that_ for?”

“You,” the former DI responded, almost snapping. “You can’t work on the Tourist Killer case and there are no more cases to work on for now. I’d suggest you do something else with your hands, since any other activities are somewhat limited.”

Sherlock glanced between the cigarette pack and lighter that lay on the floor and Lestrade. He allowed several moments of silence to pass before speaking again. “You’re actually serious.”

“As a heart attack.”

Sherlock’s eyes flickered to Molly, whose head was bent down. She was, no doubt, writing in her journal again – a habit that turned fifteen this year, nine years younger than she was. He thought it rather frivolous in truth and had made that explicit over the last seven or eight years, but it had not deterred her.

Exhaling through his nose, he stood up, brushing dirt and dust off his coat and shoving the pack of cigarettes into one of the pockets. Climbing the ladder, he opened the shelter cover a few inches and upon seeing that there was nobody in the square, opened it wide enough to let himself out.

Before he left, he bent down to yell into the shelter.

“Did I exercise sufficient caution?”

He heard a sigh and a curse. “Go, before I do something I’ll regret! And don’t give us away, for the love of – ”

The young man closed the hatch shut before Lestrade’s last word could reach him, getting to his feet and whirling away, seeking a secluded spot in which he could smoke without the authorities finding him. After wandering for a few minutes, he found himself in the historical part of the city, once containing temples which had stood there since the city’s founding. It was also the first to have been almost completely razed to the ground by Cadera and her troops.

 _If you ever want to truly hurt a country_ , he thought, _ensure you attack its history._

He ducked into a ruin with some semblance of a roof, crouched down against what was left of the wall, drew a cigarette out of the pack and lit it up, the nicotine bringing instant relief. He exhaled lazily, feeling his brain slow down for the first time since he’d left his house ten days ago. He was not a heavy smoker by nature and he knew the risks, but it was one of the few things in life that did not bore him. Which was quite an achievement in itself.

By the time it got to quarter to eight, half the pack had gone. He stubbed out the last cigarette and had just gotten up when he heard yet another _boom_ and the ground shook beneath his feet. This one was not as dull as the one he had heard ten days ago and felt much closer. Without fully panicking, he got up, sliding the pack and lighter back into his pocket, and made his way back to the shelter.

The lack of people crowding the shelter entrance contributed to his thinking that nothing was wrong.

The huge, rubble-filled crater where the shelter once was, however, gave everything away. The buildings surrounding it were also partially destroyed, the front walls vanished completely, what was left blackened by the heat of the explosion.

Sherlock stilled for a moment, mind racing, before running to the crater, skidding down the slope of debris. His hands hovered over the broken bricks as if indecisive as to whether or not to cast them aside in the search for his suitcase. Eventually, he decided as to the affirmative, adrenaline riding his veins along with the nicotine. He wondered briefly about Lestrade and Molly but when he couldn’t find hide nor hair of them amongst the wreckage, he knew they must have survived.

He pulled his scorched and dusty suitcase out of the wreckage and took off as quickly as he could. He had nowhere else to go that he was absolutely certain of. His only option now was to get out of the city.

He considered the options. He knew certain Rubarian organisations were running programmes for Avanzian and Idiocran refugees, including language lessons for those who required them. However, he still had his Caderan passport and a rudimentary understanding of the language and his brother was in the city.

He exhaled. Cadera it was, then.

~x~

In the taxi, John adjusted his tie. He hadn’t worn one for months, but he supposed he had to make the effort. In truth, he didn’t want to come for dinner that night, but he didn’t know what else he would do if he _didn’t_ go.

Telling the taxi driver to wait, he made his way to the door, using the railings as support as he climbed the few steps rather than his cane. He rapped on the door three times and took a step back before the door opened.

“Hello, John,”

“Hello, Mary. Ready?”

“Yes, yes. Just let me…” The end of her sentence trailed off as she disappeared behind the door. When she reappeared, it was with a jacket around her shoulders and her handbag on her shoulder.

John proffered an arm automatically, a brief smile visible on his face.

Mary smiled back, taking his arm. The two of them climbed back into the taxi and headed towards the restaurant, where they were meeting Harry for dinner. She was in the early stages of a twelve-step programme and seemed to want to rebuild their relationship, starting with dinner and meeting Mary. John was not looking forward to it, but then, he had nothing else to do on a Saturday night. Besides, he could always duck out if he needed to.

He took a deep breath as the taxi moved away from Mary’s house. _One day at a time._


	5. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and the next will flit between Sherlock and John, just to warn you.

Miraculously – or unluckily, depending on whom you were speaking to – there was minimal traffic that night. The couple reached the restaurant in twenty minutes and thus, their table, only to find that Harry hadn’t arrived yet. Drinks were ordered and they made small talk, sipping whilst they waited. Eventually, the doors opened and Harry entered. John watched her as she made her way to their table, noticing the slight shake to her hands and how pale she was, despite attempting to mask it, rather clumsily, with make-up.

“John! You _did_ come after all!” The older woman pulled her brother into a hug. John weakly patted her back, definitely _feeling_ the tremors he saw.

“Yeah, course I did. This is – ”

“Mary, yes, I remember now. Lovely to meet you – John’s told me so much about you,”

Mary nodded, murmuring her thanks, although John did not recall telling Harry anything about her. Letting it go, he sat back down, pouring more water into his glass before handing the bottle to his sister. She hesitated, locking eyes with her brother and for a moment, a flash of something akin to resistance passed between them. She took the water bottle, filling her glass halfway.

“So, Harry, what is it you do?” Mary sat forward.

“Oh, I worked at the bookshop for a while. Y’know, the one on St. Bartholomew Street?”

“I do! I used to work there at weekends in sixth form…”

~x~

**_Avanzia_ **

Sherlock slipped in amongst the crowds of people at the airport, Belstaff buttoned up tight around him. He felt the passport in his pocket softly hit his thigh with every swing of his coat, tapping as if reminding him that it was still there.

He found the sign he was looking for, namely, the one for Caderan and Rubarian passport holders. Separating himself from the crowds, he joined the queue, which was mercifully short. He looked at the back of the gentleman in front of him. _Thirties – emigrant – married – Caderan wife, two Avanzian-born children, one of whom wants nothing to do with him and now works in Idiocra – two dogs and a cat – former office worker – can only_ now _get out of the country –_

“Next.”

Sherlock shook his head as the lady behind the counter ( _unmarried – five years on the job – piano player in her spare time – sixth-generation Avanzian_ )checked the passport of the man in front of him. The younger man mentally chastised himself. Had he really been that slow?  He was normally far quicker than that in his deductions.

“Next.”

Flashing a brief smile, Sherlock whipped his passport out and handed it to the lady. She opened it, frowning, eyes scanning the page and occasionally flicking back up to Sherlock’s face. Eventually, she closed it, passing it back to the young man, who frowned in confusion.

“What appears to be the problem?”

“Your passport’s not in date,”

“I can assure you it is,”

Sherlock’s frown deepened as he opened onto the page. _Name, date of birth, number, date of issue, date of expiration…_

He stopped breathing as he read the date. _27 th February 2307._

“What is the date today?”

“16th May.”

“Year?”

The man who’d spoken looked at him. “2310.”

“Move aside, please!” the lady behind the counter barked sharply.

With no argument to support him, Sherlock turned on his heel and flounced out the airport, mind going into overdrive regarding what he would do next. If legal means were unavailable to him, then he had no other option but to take the lorry way out of the city.

~x~

**_Cadera_ **

The women seemed to be getting along well, but John’s back remained ramrod-straight, always wary of what his sister would come out with next. He picked at his meal, having decided to skip the starter – unlike his date and his sister, he noted. When they visited their mother at the same time, the younger sibling would eventually say something which proved to have an incendiary reaction and normally resulted in raised voices and one (or both) of them being kicking out of the house. At the moment, the superficial atmosphere of harmony was mostly intact.

“So, Harry…” Mary sipped her wine before continuing. “Are you seeing anyone at the moment?”

John stiffened, attention on his sister, who seemed to be considering her answer carefully. She’d stuck to water all night, but John had treated enough ex-alcoholics to predict what could ( _was going to_ ) happen. _Here we go._

“No, no. Not right now. My sponsor says it’s not a good idea.” She sighed. “I’m…not really interested in anyone else, anyway.”

Mary nodded sympathetically.

“What about _you_ , Mary?” Harry’s voice had suddenly taken on a more acidic edge. “Do you think you’ll be seeing John again after tonight?”

There it was. The first crack. Mary looked at the siblings, uncertainty blanketing her features. “Well. Um. I would like to, but I can’t speak for John – ”

“Yes,” the doctor cut in. “Yes, Harry, we _will_.”

“Because I know what he’s like.” Harry finished her water, hands and voice shaking. “Wines ‘em, dines ‘em…and then he’s gone. There’s a reason they call you…what did you say your nickname was in the army?”

 “Can I get anyone any more drinks?” a waitress asked, appearing apparently out of nowhere. John and Mary responded in the negative. The crack got wider.

“Whiskey shot, please,” Harry replied.

“Harry, you’re – ”

“Three Continents Watson! _That’s_ what they called you!” Harry laughed raucously. “Seriously, Mary, this one does _not_ do long-term. If you’re looking for that, you’re wasting your time with him,”

“Well, it’s probably a good thing that I’m _not_ looking for long-term right now,” Mary interjected in her soft voice. “I mean, it _is_ only the third date after all. Don’t want to rush into anything.”

The superficially harmonious atmosphere dissolved. John grabbed the shot of whiskey off the tray as it passed him and downed it before he changed his mind.

His sister looked indignant. “That was _my_ shot!”

“I know,” John retorted, “and you’re on a twelve-step, which means you shouldn’t be drinking it,”

“And _you_ should?”

Something in that reply – maybe it was the disdainful snort that came after it – got to John. He counted to five in his head before finally speaking, voice uneven. “Harry, could I speak to you in private?”

His sister licked her lips before nodding, having finally fallen silent. The siblings retreated to a corner of the restaurant, John touching Mary’s shoulder on the way past, facing each other.

“Why are you behaving like this?”

Harry shrugged, folding her arms. “I’m just warning Mary before she goes and falls for you.”

John licked his lips. “Right. Should I have warned Clara about your drinking before you two got married and divorced within the year?”

Harry swallowed, eyes shining with tears. “That’s _low_.”

“That’s the same logic you just used on me.” John also swallowed, pushing down the lump in his throat. “Listen, I gave you a chance with this dinner, but until you – ”

“You didn’t eat.”

John blinked, startled at being interrupted. “What?”

“You didn’t eat the meal you ordered,” the younger woman replied, eyes cast to the ground. “In fact, when _was_ the last time you ate?”

“Why do you suddenly care?”

Harry looked over at the table. “Waiter’s brought the bill,”

Giving his sister a look that said _this isn’t over_ , John made his way back to the table, leg throbbing again.

Harry pinched the bridge of her nose to suppress the rising tears before following her brother.

~x~

The taxi ride was silent and more than a little uncomfortable. John got out to see Mary to her door, despite her protests of his not needing to do so. He did anyway and she unlocked her front door, the two flashing brief smiles at each other. John shifted on his feet, leg throbbing, longing for his cane.

Mary cleared her throat. “Look, John – ”

“I’m sorry about…Harry,” he blurted before he could stop himself. “I thought…she’d be…”

“I know.” Mary chuckled, turning away from her door and coming down a step to take his hand. “Everyone has a jagged edge they can’t smooth down. It’s alright.”

 _But I’m all jagged edges_ , John thought, leg throbbing more than ever.

“Do you want to come in for a bit?” Mary asked.

The former army doctor pulled a face. “I can’t, sorry, I have to get back. Early start tomorrow – ”

“Yeah, of course. Yes – ”

“ – and all that – ”

“ – and all that.”

He cleared his throat. “See you soon. I’ll phone.”

She nodded. “Yes. See you soon.”

A beat or two passed. John kissed Mary on the cheek before turning back to the taxi, climbing in and shutting the doors.

Mary watched as it drove off, feeling worse than ever. She didn’t know some days whether John truly wanted to be with her or not. She knew about his time in Avanzia, his wounds and his struggle to readjust to civilian life, even if he hadn’t explicitly stated the last one. Sometimes, she suspected she was part of his cover.

The war continued, he couldn’t go back and he wanted to. If she could pick that up, gods know who else could.

Sighing quietly, she closed the door, locking it for the night and retiring to bed. She wanted to get an early night in anyway.


	6. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, I've been away! Thanks for the views and subscriptions. Comments would be good, though, whether good or bad. I have to note that this chapter jumps between Sherlock and John frequently and also, I've never had regular therapy, so I apologise if any of the first John section seems off. Anyway, enjoy!

**_Avanzia_ **

It was only after Sherlock saw a thin stream of people heading towards one of the principle warehouses of the city that he realised an illegal way out was within reach after all _._ Buttoning up the Belstaff, he kept his head down and merged with the streams of people into the loading area at the back of the warehouse. Lined up in the courtyard (if one could call it that) were twelve large lorries with their backs open, the interiors completely empty.

_Once used to transport hay, although they have transported Avanzians. Mafia also used them for narcotics and corpses, although this has remained undetected since war broke out._

The young man was shoved and pulled from all different angles, the tarpaulin covering each individual lorry flapping and stretching in the commotion. At one point, he thought he saw Lestrade and Molly, but since he couldn’t ascertain it, he deleted it from his mind.

He tried (and failed) to keep the grimace from his face as he squeezed himself against one of the metal supports in the lorry, more people piling in after him. The temperature in the lorry was steadily rising to discomforting levels, bringing with it a rise in the smells of body tissue, mould and various disinfectants obviously used in a half-hearted attempt to disguise the former two. Sherlock ducked his head, face buried in the space between his coat and his body, just as the doors screeched shut and a heavy, metallic _whump_ noise sounded, sealing off what was left of both daylight and fresh air from the container.

The young man knew it would take approximately – no, _exactly_ – twenty-two hours and forty-five minutes to reach Cadera, assuming the lorry maintained a steady speed of fifty miles-per-hour and was neither diverted nor stopped. He had no interest in the rising chatter of everyone else in the container, conducted in various dialects (including Terrorean, a minority language which was both found in North Avanzia and mutually intelligible with both Avanzian and Buradin). However, he had nothing else to distract him.

Exhaling quietly, he turned, leaning against the metal support as best as he could. He was considering sleeping away those twenty-two hours and forty-five minutes when a small slash of grey-blue light caught his eye. Frowning and pulling on a glove, he felt his way along the ( _fifteen-year old_ ) tarpaulin until he found the edge of the tear. Sliding one finger through the tear and hooking it round the edge, he tugged. The rip gave, growing bigger and letting more air in. The young man pressed his face against the flap, inhaling the faint, fresh breeze as it flew into his nostrils.

~x~

_**Cadera** _

Rain tapped against the window, competing with the clock in the otherwise silent office. John counted his breaths and the seconds between each one as well as how long it took him to inhale and exhale. Silence unnerved him; this was how he coped.

Eventually, Ella broke the silence.

“Last week, you mentioned you and your sister were going to dinner. Last night, was it?”

John nodded. “Yeah.”

“How did that go?”

The army doctor opened and closed his mouth, shifting in his chair and swallowing. His mouth and throat were dry; he was unable to speak.

“Okay,” Ella said quietly, scribbling something down on her pad. _Reluctant to talk about attempted reconciliation with sister – suggests it went badly_. John was neither stupid nor illiterate. “We don’t have to talk about it if you – ”

“No. No, I do.” John clenched and unclenched his fist, biting the words out. “It…didn’t go very well.”

“Why was that?”

Clench-unclench. “Because…my sister, she brought up a few, ah. Personal things. Personal truths. I reacted badly to them being stated.”

“When you say ‘it went badly’…”

John knew what she was implying. “It didn’t descend into violence, no. God no. But things were…tense between us again. We left the restaurant shortly afterwards.”

Ella nodded, considering this for a few moments. “John, did you ever consider taking up my suggestion of starting a blog?”

“Briefly.”

“But?” Ella prompted.

The veteran shifted in his chair. His leg was beginning to throb again. “You know how it is at the moment. There’s a war on. Government’s monitoring all online activity for subversion. Slightest slip and I’ll be arrested or worse,”

The therapist nodded. “How about a handwritten journal? That certainly offers more privacy than a blog,”

 _Would be a waste of money_ , John thought. _Nothing happens to me. I’ve already said so._

After a few moments, during which she’d written down ‘struggling to adjust to civilian life’ on her pad, Ella spoke again. “Just think about it. It might really help you.”

John stood to leave, nodding. “I will. Thanks.”

“Okay. See you next week.”

They shook hands, John turning to limp out and away from the office as the door slammed behind him. The sound followed him all the way out of the hospital and back home.

~x~

Sherlock was startled awake by the lorry coming to a halt. Hurriedly, without quite knowing why, he shifted in front of the flap, blocking both the light and straggling puffs of fresh air. Almost immediately, the whole van fell silent, listening keenly to the voices outside, holding their collective breath.

“Anything exciting?”

“Nah. Just a bunch of curlies.”

“Go on,” he heard the outside voice say. Not long after, the van moved off again, Sherlock moving away from the flap to gawp out of it, taking in what he could of this new, strange city. Night was falling and it looked like most of the lighting system was destroyed, so the new information that was being committed to a new room of his mind palace was only partially completed. _Although_ , he rationalised, _it doesn’t look like Cadera has much to commit to memory. Perhaps I should have gone to Rubaria. Much more to see there, even if it would have taken me longer to get in._

~x~

“Doctor Watson?”

The two uniformed men were waiting for the veteran outside his door when he got back from the supermarket. John frowned, scanning their uniforms until he spotted the blue-and-green badges he was looking for.

“Ah yes. One second.” John fumbled for the key to his flat. “Could I see some identification?”

“Of course.” The elder-looking of the two drew his identification wallet out of his breast pocket. John took it, along with the other one when it was produced, checking both of them. _Walter Emerson and Eric Richards, thirty and twenty-seven respectively, Fugitive Concealment Department_. And there was the official silver stamp on the bottom right-hand corner. All seemed right. He handed the wallets back to their owners and unlocked the door, pushing it open and gesturing for the two men to enter.

As they searched his flat, he sat down on the sofa, massaging his throbbing leg. After twenty or so minutes, they appeared in front of him, back straight, heads slightly tipped towards the former Army doctor.

Emerson was the one who spoke.

“All done, sir. Thank you for your time.”

“No Avanzians to be found?” John asked dryly.

“None.”

“Excellent. Right. See you next week.”

John saw them out, locking the door behind him. Once again, the flat was eerily quiet. He looked at the time – nine-fifteen, five hours since he’d walked out of Ella’s office. Ordinarily he would go to bed in an attempt to sleep, but he felt restless despite his aching leg; almost agitated, as if he’d received some bad news.

He decided to go for a walk. Just a quick one, if only to settle his mind.


	7. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the xenophobia/ racism tag comes in. There is also a fight with injury detail, though it's not too strong.

The lorry’s doors screeched as they opened once more, a horrible sound that set everyone’s teeth on edge. Sherlock, who was by now facing into the container once more, peered over some heads to see a man at the foot of the loading ramp, visible only by the last glimmers of daylight. Without needing to be told to do so, the Avanzians closest to the door got up and began to move into the dusky outdoors. This sparked a mass movement as everyone seemed to awaken, pouring outside the van and splintering like lines of insects away in different directions. Some stayed close to the van, hesitating, eyes wide, but a rough “Go on, go!” set them off too.

Sherlock rapidly left the area the lorry was parked in, watching as others fled into the night – mothers with children, sons with fathers, the young, the elderly, the disabled and the able-bodied. He was glad he came alone. He didn’t want his chances of survival being reduced by other people depending on him.

He turned right, heading down a street which was decidedly less ruined than most of Avanzia. He wanted to take it all in, really he did, but right now it was dark and he had to find a safe place for the night –

“Hey!”

Sherlock froze, unsure whether or not the exclamation was directed at him. After a moment, he turned slowly in the voice’s direction.

“Yeah, _you!_ ”

Any doubt was instantly crushed. Sherlock knew that if he opened his mouth, Not Good things would happen. He was in Cadera now. His intelligence, abilities and even his Caderan blood meant nothing here. Ninety-five per cent of Caderans would always see (and hear) the Avanzian side.

The thought chilled him, as hard as he tried not to let him. Swallowing, he nodded in acknowledgement. _Yes? What?_

“The fuck are you doing out here?”

Sherlock frowned. _Excuse me?_

The other man ( _five foot eleven – married – two sons – member of the right-wing Unbroken Circle party like his father before him – abused as a child – abuses his family as a result_ ) looked him up and down, a grimace on his face as if he’d just encountered abandoned pet faeces.

“Wait a second. You’re one of them curlies.” He stepped forward, closing the gap between them. “You’re not fucking welcome here. Fuck off back to Avanzia. Go marry your sister or some shit,”

“No,” Sherlock croaked. He may not have understood what the man said, but his tone was clear enough, especially given their respective backgrounds.

The thug squinted at him. “The fuck did you just say to me?” He laughed. “Did you just say ‘no’ to me? D’you even know who the fuck I _am_? What my name _means_ in this city?”

Sherlock swallowed again, not wishing to betray his lack of understanding.

The other man’s fist clenched. “You camel-fucking upstart,” he growled, right before his fist took all the wind out of the young man.

~x~

It was the series of grunts that alerted John to the very one-sided fistfight in the deserted street. Movement caught the corner of his eye soon afterwards, confirming what he heard. He saw the taller, skinnier man fall to the floor. Meanwhile, the other turned to kicking him, throwing whatever he could find at the floored man. Rubbish and debris, mostly. John recognised the assailant as Steven Waters, a man he knew only by reputation.

Without thinking, John ran towards the fight even as the man on the ground stopped moving and Waters spat on him, walking away. The man on the ground groaned, rolling onto his back. John reached him within seconds, kneeling by him. The stranger was fully clothed and the light was sparse, so he couldn’t tell too much from that. What he _could_ estimate was the man’s age (mid-twenties) and aside from looking a little underweight, the lesions on his face and other possible wounds, he was in good health.

“No…” the young man croaked weakly.

“Ssh, it’s okay, I’m a doctor.” John rolled up the coat and shirt sleeves of the young man, checking the startlingly pale skin for discoloration and swelling. When he found neither, he quickly checked the other limbs, to which the young man protested wordlessly. He exhaled in relief. _Nothing serious there either. Good._ “Can you sit up?”

The young man on the ground frowned up at him. John looked at his face – long, all angles and planes, not an unattractive face by any means – then at his hair. Only then did it hit him like a freight train.

“Avanzian?” he asked. He had to be sure.

“Yes,” the man croaked back.

 _Shit. Probably couldn’t understand me_. John ran a hand through his hair. “Right. Um…” _Oh, fuck it._ Moving up, he slid one hand under the young man’s back, attempting to get him to sit up. Luckily, he caught on quickly and sat up, palms flat on the ground for support underneath him.

“Are you alright?” John asked urgently. The young man nodded, looking like his was about to faint. Without saying another word, the older man got up and walked round to the feet of the younger, proffering a hand. The man on the ground frowned again for a moment before accepting it, the older experiencing no difficulty in pulling the Avanzian to his feet.

The young man stumbled, bent double and breathing heavily, pain wracking his features. John noticed he was clutching his side whilst the other was pointed in the direction John had come from. The former Army doctor was confused.

“S…stick,” the Avanzian gasped.

“Stick?” John peered into the darkness until he saw something glinting faintly. “Oh, my cane. Yes.” In the rush, he’d forgotten all about it. He looked between it and the young man. “You need shelter. Do you know anyone nearby?” When he didn’t receive a reply, a look or a nod or shake of the head, John decided to take action. “You can’t stay out here.” He sighed. “Come on. Can you walk?”

The young man nodded, clutching his side as he followed the stranger. He wondered who this person was and why he was showing such kindness towards him, despite clearly having many problems himself. _Former Army doctor – discharged from the army on medical grounds, how ironic –psychosomatic limp – wound in shoulder – has brother but won’t go to him for help because of disapproval of brother’s drinking (perhaps?) – PTSD – of Cozzese descent on mother’s side – must ultimately want something out of this, everyone does –_

“Are you coming?”

The young man didn’t realise he had stopped. Without responding, he strode up to and slightly behind the former army doctor, following him all the way back to the flat, broken ribs grinding and sending shoots of pain up and down his body.

John unlocked the door and opened it, gesturing to the Avanzian to enter, shutting and locking the door behind him before anyone could see. The young man was waiting behind him, hunched over, bruises flowering red and purple that John could see.

What John couldn’t foresee was what indeed happened next. The young man opened his mouth and shakily asked:

“A-Avanzia…or Idiocra?”


	8. Chapter Seven

John stood at the end of the hallway, mouth hanging open like an idiot. “ _What?_ ”

The young man at the other end huffed in pain before inhaling again, raggedly. “Avanzia or...or Idiocra?”

The young man’s thick accent meant that it took John a few minutes to work out what he was saying, but once he did, he almost stumbled with the realisation of what the Avanzian meant. _How did he know?_ The veteran was dumbfounded. He glanced over the hunched-over young man in front of him, who in turn was staring back with unusually pale eyes – unusual for an Avanzian, that is. _Green? No, blue. Caderan eyes and Avanzian tongue. Bloody hell._

Shaking his head, he moved towards the curly-haired, bruised and bleeding foreigner, guiding him into the open space that comprised of the kitchen and living room. Walking around the stranger and stopping in front of the sofa, John motioned for the other man to sit down. He glanced up at John, remaining in his spot for a few minutes, before limping over to the equally battered sofa, sinking down into it gratefully.

The Caderan left without saying a word and Sherlock tightened his coat around him, shivering. He wondered where he was going; he guessed it was probably to call the authorities. This thought constricted his chest in panic and for the second time that day, he ducked his head down in the dark warmth of the space between his coat and his body, inhaling the comfortingly familiar scent of…well, himself. He mentally scolded himself with the knowledge that he was not one to consign himself so easily to panic, so there was no point in starting now.

At least it was warm. Since Cadera had a moderate climate and it was the height of winter, he expected the buildings to be much the same. He was surprised to find functioning central heating devices on the walls of the small flat, mentally pairing it with the cold, careless destruction he’d seen over the last decade and on his way in.

A small noise to his right startled the Avanzian and he realised the doctor had returned with a medical kit. Sherlock was confused, having been expecting to be dragged off and either deported or killed. _Likely the latter._

“Do you have…” The doctor stopped, swallowed and started again. “Your name?”

Sherlock licked his lips, not understanding. _Do you want to see my identification? What do you want me to do?_

The older man sighed. “Okay…I’m just going to treat your wounds. Alright?”

The young man shoved his hand into the pocket of his coat, which had miraculously survived both the journey and the beating unscathed. He felt around until his hand found the hard edge of the slightly battered passport. Getting a good grip on it and drawing it out, he held it out to the Caderan, hand shaking slightly.

John looked at the younger man in confusion. “What’s this?”

As expected, he didn’t answer, just shook the small black book in his hand slightly. Huffing quietly, John took the object in his hand, feeling its edges. Bending his thumbs, he managed to open it, recognising the background instantly.

_A passport?_

He flipped the pages until he found the one he was looking for. It definitely belonged to the young Avanzian in front of him. John took in the man’s name and age ( _definitely older than he looks_ ) and dates of issue and expiration. _Why keep a long-expired passport with him? Did he leave Avanzia in a hurry?_

“Thanks, um…” He stared at the name, attempting to work out its pronunciation. “Sherlock Holmes?”

“Yes,” the man croaked. “Sh-Sherlock.”

“That’s your name?”

Sherlock quickly processed this in his brain. It was a question and it ended with ‘name’, therefore the Caderan must be confirming his name. “Yes.” He swallowed, taking advantage of the pause to ask his own question. “Your…name?”

The doctor looked at him, clearly having not expected a return question. “My name?”

Sherlock nodded, throat dry. “Yes.”

“My name is John. John Watson.” The former doctor suddenly remembered the younger man’s initial question and smiled. “I served in Avanzia.”

Something broke over the younger man’s face and he allowed a small smile to cross it. _Click._

John shook his head as if shaking himself out of a stupor. “Right. I’m just going to treat your wounds, so I need you to remove your coat.” He knelt down in front of the Avanzian, looking directly into his eyes, seeing how tightly he was clutching the coat to him. “Could you do that for me, Sherlock?”

The Avanzian tilted his head, confused and frustrated by his lack of understanding. Maybe he should have taken those Caderan lessons at school after all – they would at least have given him a more solid foundation of understanding than the handful of words he’d left his home city with. He clenched his jaw, looking down at his feet shamefully.

John felt the stranger’s frustration and shame radiate from him like heat, suppressing his own annoyance at the seemingly steel-lined language barriers between them. Hauling himself up to sit back on the chair and ensuring the young man was watching, he tugged at the bottom of the latter’s coat, then mimed taking a coat off on himself. Clarity shone briefly in the young man’s eyes and he shod the coat quickly. He wore a dark purple button-down shirt which in turn revealed a vee-shape of vulnerable white skin and fine, bruised collarbones as well as slender, nubile-looking long-fingered hands and the beginnings of equally slender, translucent wrists. At first guess, John would say this man was a musician of some sort, especially given the expensive-looking cut of the coat he arrived with.

_Probably costs much more than I could make in a year._

He indicated to the button-down and made another gesture, a silent request for the Avanzian to remove that too. Now the young man looked confused and more than a little wary.

John held up his hands, palms facing Sherlock, carefully enunciating every word that came out of his mouth slowly. “I just want to treat your wounds. I can’t do that if I can’t see them.” He opened the First Aid kit he’d laid on his lap, gesturing to the equipment inside before pointing at the young man.

Understanding passed across his face and he hastily worked at the buttons on his shirt, wincing as the sudden action sparked pain at various points on his body. He gingerly shrugged out of it, feeling it slip down his back, pooling between his bottom and the back of the sofa.

“Here, let me…” John got up and took the crumpled shirt out, spreading it out carefully over a sofa arm. He walked into the kitchen and got a clean cloth, returning to the Avanzian in his living room. Pulling the cloth taut over his finger, he got out the bottle of rubbing alcohol out and tipped it slightly over the stretched cloth, soaking a small area. Screwing the lid back on, he stooped over the young man on the sofa, gently dabbing at the cuts with one hand and keeping his head steady with the other. His fingertips rested on some of the surprisingly soft curls just over the man’s hairline and he had to fight an urge to plunge his entire hand in the rich field of his scalp.

_Professionalism. Come on._

Once he had finished with the man’s ( _boy’s_ ) face, he moved on to the very obvious abrasions littering the rest of his body. Moving his other hand to the areas around the abrasions, he also dried and applied antiseptic cream to the wounds, causing the man to flinch on occasion. He felt those unusually icy eyes on him, burning everywhere they looked, watching him perform work that for him was just routine. Snapping himself out of it, he checked the Avanzian’s ribs, spotting large gashes of purple bruising. _No wonder he was limping. Broken ribs. Nothing I can do about that._

He leaned over once more to pass the shirt back before sitting down on the seat in front of the sofa wordlessly, eyes fixed on the young man in front of him.

“You have several broken ribs.” John made a gesture as a form of translation. “Otherwise, nothing serious. But I can’t keep you here. I’ll be arrested and-or executed. You…” He folded arms. “You’d probably be _deported_ and-or executed.”

Sherlock stared back at the Caderan doctor ( _John_ ), gathering his coat back up around him. He was frozen to the spot, unsure of what to do or say with his handful of Caderan. It was enough that the man had been kind enough to take him in and treat his wounds. He was fully prepared to be shown the door, kicked out in the cold.

 _But then_ , his mind supplied, _if that was going to happen, John would have left me to the mercy of that thug._

“Are you hungry?”

Sherlock broke out of his reverie in time to see John make an exaggerated gesture with a questioning face. _Hungry. He’s asking if I’m hungry._ “No,” he croaked in reply, voice barely there from a lack of use.

“Thirsty, then?”

 _Thirsty._ Sherlock made sure to store these words in his mind palace. “Yes.”

“Would you like anything particular? I have tea…ordinary tea. Or, um…” He faltered.

“Water?” Sherlock tried, having caught the word earlier.

John frowned in lack of understanding. “Sorry? Could you say that again?”

Sherlock inhaled deeply, fear building in his gut once again. “Water?”

“Oh, _water_. Yes, of course. I’ll get you some water.”

Sherlock nodded his thanks, drawing his coat tightly around him again, a little more convinced that he was not going to be kicked out, as he’d feared. The veteran soon returned, handing him a glass of clear liquid that chilled the glass and the young man sipped from it.

 _Ah._ This _is ‘water’._

One more for the mind palace.

He reckoned he would be fine, if only for the night. Might as well enjoy it.


	9. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lucky you, you get two chapters updated (mainly because of my mistake: see the one entitled Chapter Three for an explanation). Thanks to everyone who's read, commented and/ or bookmarked/ subscribed! I deeply appreciate it, honestly. My apologies for my cock-up. :3 ~Mika

**_Earlier_ **

“…Okay. See you tomorrow. Bye.”

Mary hung up, replacing the phone in its cradle, when there was a pounding at the door. She froze, mind whirring as to who it could be. John was home for the evening, she knew that – she’d be seeing him for dinner tomorrow night, without his sister this time (and thankfully, she privately thought, after what happened last time), after having seen her parents in the north of the city. Many of her friends were either out or away on holiday at this time, having wanted to escape the wet Caderan winter.

Another round of frantic hammering made her dash to the door, flinging it open to find a woman and a young boy on her doorstep. They were wide-eyed and going by their manner of dress, clearly not local.

“H-hello, can I help you?” Mary stammered.

The woman swallowed, panting. “H-help us,”

Mary ushered them in and closed the door, turning her back to it, unsure of what to do next. “What happened?”

The woman spoke hesitantly with a thick accent. “We are from Avanzia. We came from a…” She paused, hesitant, turning to her son, asking a question in Avanzian. He replied and she turned her attention back to Mary, continuing in Caderan. “From a big lorry. Here, we don’t know anyone. We need just one night. Will you help?”

Mary was speechless. She heard the bulletin every day; she was well aware of the risks that would come with sheltering Avanzian refugees, however they entered the country (although at the moment, there was no legal way for them to do so).

“Come with me,” she said, heading upstairs. She heard the creaks behind her as the woman and her son followed her, muttering in a language she didn’t understand. Her stomach roiled in panic. She’d never defied the Caderan authorities before, not even for minor offences when she was much younger than now. However, the people in front of her were still human beings; therefore, she couldn’t really ignore their plea for help.

Grabbing a stool from out the study, she stood on it and pressed on a panel in the ceiling. It lifted briefly before falling back down, revealing it to be an attic door with a folded-up ladder attached to it. Taking the ladder in both hands, she pulled gently, extending it to the floor. She put her weight on it briefly, checking it was stable, before ushering the woman and her son up the ladder and into the attic.

“Don’t worry,” she assured them as they ascended, “the floor is safe. There are no rotten spots; you won’t fall through.”

They nodded, continuing their ascent. Mary grabbed some bedding out of the airing cupboard and bundled it under her arm, following them up. Stabilising herself with her free hand, she threw the bedding onto the attic floor before pulling herself up into the room. The woman and her son seemed to have shrunk against the sloped ceiling, tense with anticipation and fear. The atmosphere crackled in the small room. Mary gathered up the bedding and arranged it properly at the other end of the damp room, rolling her shoulders as if to stave the tension off.

“Thank you,” the woman breathed, sitting down with her son on the bedding abruptly, as if they’d been ordered to.

Mary nodded tightly. “Are you hungry? Thirsty? I don’t have much at the moment, but I could offer you water and some toast…”

“That is fine,”

Mary looked at the tiny family in front of her. “This is for both of you?”

They nodded in affirmation.

“Okay…” Mary exhaled as she descended down the ladder once more, almost floating downstairs. She felt strangely detached from her situation, one that she never expected to find herself in in the first place. She wondered if this was how John felt on a daily basis before mentally slapping herself. Now was not the time to think of John. He more than likely wasn’t thinking of her.

Just as she reached the small arch leading into the kitchen, the doorbell rang again. She froze once more, waiting. Long moments passed, during which another ring on the doorbell did not occur. Slowly, she moved into the dark kitchen and pressed herself against the wall near the side of the arch, waiting. She fervently hoped that the ringer wasn’t another Avanzian. She didn’t have the space for –

“We know you’re in there, Ms Morstan.”

The muffled voice had a Rubarian accent. Mary took some deep breaths, attempting to steady her heartbeat. Panic suffused her, her mind whirling ( _this was a trap; they followed the woman and her son here; soon as they deport or kill them they’ll arrest or kill me too_ ). She wondered what to do.

“No need to worry, we just want to talk.”

 _Yes, of course you do._ How _many people have heard those exact words before you carried them off?_ Mary stepped out into the arch slowly, fists balled, whole body clenched in a toxic cocktail of anticipation and fear. Making herself relax, she stepped cautiously towards the door, her breathing now a whistle in her throat.

She opened the door with shaking hands to find just one Fugitive Concealment Officer at her door. She frowned in confusion – _wasn’t there usually two when it comes to Avanzians?_

The officer in front smiled. “Good evening, Ms Morstan,”

“Good evening, Officer.” She managed to keep her nerves out of her voice. “May I see some ID, please?”

“Of course.” The officer in front of her dug the compulsory ID out of her front pocket. Once Mary was satisfied, she handed it back.

“How may I help you tonight?”

The young woman in front of her gave her a look. “I think we both know why I’m here. However, there’s something else that I want to discuss with you.”

Mary nodded and stepped aside, letting the young woman in, closing the door behind her.

~x~

“…will you be comfortable for the night?”

Sherlock seemed to think about this for a moment, perhaps attempting to translate in his head, before nodding in affirmation. Tucked underneath the thinner duvet, he seemed a lot smaller and more vulnerable than he did when John was treating him, a strange juxtaposition in the doctor’s eyes. His icy eyes were wide and John could almost see and hear the cogs in his brain absorbing this new information.

“You’ve never been to Cadera before, have you?”

It was a daring question, born from a hunch. The young man looked at the older with wide eyes, confusion resonating in them. John sighed through his nose.

“Never mind. Goodnight, Sherlock,”

A hesitant “Goodnight…John,” followed the older man out the room. He paused once to look back at the illegal immigrant he was harbouring before turning off the light and entering his own room.

His mind woke up when he slid into bed. He knew he was taking incredible risks, not solely to himself but also the young man in his living room. The longer the Avanzian man stayed, the greater the risks got.

 _One night_ , he promised himself. _One night and then he has to go. One night and this mess will bloody well end._

Although that thought was meant to settle everything, it was another two hours before he finally drifted off into a light and fitful sleep. Sherlock Holmes, he felt, was going to get him into a world of trouble.


	10. Chapter Nine

On the other side of Cadera, Mary’s fingers twitched in her lap, where they were clasped. She swallowed, not being sure what to make of the offer made by the young woman in front of her. She assumed the offer had been green-lighted by the FCD in total secrecy, since she was not allowed to tell anyone about it whether she accepted or not.

The young woman cleared her throat. “You do understand that if you accepted, it would mean a certain degree of…observation,”

“Observation?” Mary questioned.

“Yes.” It seemed like the other woman was going to say something more, but she cut herself off before the words could escape her mouth. “On your part.”

“What kind of…observation?”

“Well, ah…” The woman paused and Mary could almost see the cogs turning in her brain as she chose her words carefully. “Just making sure no…unfavourable elements seep into the country.”

 _You mean Avanzians or Caderan dissent_ , Mary thought without any particular emotion. _Both are equal in your eyes._ Truthfully, she didn’t know how to feel about the situation. On one hand, if she accepted, she would not be imprisoned, exiled or executed for harbouring illegal immigrants, albeit on a temporary basis; on the other, it meant she would be spying on everyone around her, even those closest to her. She thought it all incredibly exhausting work, especially when combined with her job at the hospital.

However, she also wanted this war over and if this was a way to help it end, then she might as well do her part. She took a deep breath and faced the woman, speaking clearly.

“I accept.”

The woman smiled, digging a few papers out of her pocket. “Brilliant. I just need you to fill in these forms here...”

Mary instantly got up to look for a pen.

“I have one here.” The official drew out a pen and the other woman took it, sitting back down and smoothing the papers flat. She lowered her gaze to the first page and read through it before signing the bottom, taking a deep breath as if about to plunge into deep waters.

~x~

Tired as the day’s events had made him, John couldn’t sleep. It might have been the literally foreign presence in his flat or the pervasive knowledge that he had saved the life of one whose life should not have been saved, thus risking his own in the process.

He realised that he hadn’t needed the cane since seeing the fight and saving the stranger, despite winding up bringing it home with him upon his behest. He would have liked to say they had talked for a good hour or so, but since the stranger ( _Sherlock,_ Sherlock, _his name is Sherlock, an incredibly archaic Old Caderan name, wonder where his parents got that from_ ) knew very little Caderan despite his heritage, conversation had been frustratingly short. The younger man had been frustrated in some way, though, body tense, fingers flexing as if he was resisting the urge to punch something ( _or someone_ ). John wondered if the young man had a particular reason in coming to Cadera or whether this was considered a major ‘safe place’ for refugees and he’d simply followed everyone else here. _Once_ , he thought, somewhat bitterly. _It was a major safe place once. Now most Avanzians go to Rubaria, as the United Avanzian-and-Idiocran-Rubarian Central Organisations are running refugee programmes there._ He sighed, head flopping back on his pillow, staring up at the dark ceiling. _Don’t they know what dangers lie ahead of them if they come here to Cadera?_

Whilst he was treating the young man, he also kept his ears open for the tell-tale rap on the door that signalled the arrival of the FCD to take them away. He still kept them open now.

Maybe that was why he couldn’t sleep. Paranoia was getting to him in ways it hadn’t since he was in active service.

Sighing, he sat up, pulling on his dressing gown and made his way into the kitchen, flipping the lights on. Filling the kettle, he set it back down on the heating element, flicking it on and leaning against the counter as it boiled, rubbing his eyes.

A quiet padding alerted him and he instinctively reached for the service weapon that was no longer by his side. The Avanzian appeared in the doorway leading into the living room, rubbing his eyes. John suddenly felt guilty, though he wasn’t quite sure why.

“Did I wake you?” he asked. _Sorry._

The curly-haired man looked up, eyes giving it away when the rest of his body did not. They were far too alert and awake; he’d never slept, same as John.

The older man indicated to the kettle. “Drink?” He made the motion for clarification.

The younger man stared at the kettle, frowning at it before turning his gaze back to John. _You can make drinks from that?_

“You…” John swallowed. “You’ve never seen a kettle before?”

The refugee, as expected, didn’t answer. Instead, he almost tiptoed towards it, hand outstretched warily.

“Careful, it’s hot – ”

The veteran was cut off by a gasp, the young Avanzian clutching his hand and blowing on it, forehead creased in pain. Walking around to face the sink, John leaned over and turned the tap on, taking the young man’s wrist and running the injured hand under the steady stream of cold water. He studied the young, angular face as the hand cooled and healed.

“You can’t tell me you’ve never seen a kettle before.”

The Avanzian – _Sherlock_ – didn’t verbally or expressively answer that, but dried his hand on the nearest tea-towel and shrugged, looking like an embarrassed teenager.

John pointed to the device, trying to suppress the affectionate warmth that was blooming in his chest. “Kettle.”

“Hot,” Sherlock added, nodding, a tiny smile softening his features.

 _He knows ‘hot’ and ‘cold’._ “Drink?” John asked. “Water?”

The young man nodded. As John let his tea brew, he grabbed a glass and filled it, handing it to the Avanzian in his kitchen. The companionable silence that settled over the room as both of them drank their midnight drinks surprised the pair of them.

As Sherlock sipped his water, he thought about Mycroft and how he was going to reach him. He’d found a Caderan atlas amongst the bundle of books on the singular shelf in the living room, but his brother was notoriously secretive when it came to his whereabouts. The younger Holmes wouldn’t even know where he’d look first, let alone whom he’d ask with his limited Caderan.

He downed his drink and whirled back to the living room, curling up on the sofa and staring at the TV.

“Goodnight,” John whispered, half to himself, not entirely sure why he did it. For all he knew, the Avanzian could still kill him in his sleep. He had as much reason to trust the young man in his living room as the young man did to trust him.

 _I’ll give him a few days to let his ribs heal,_ _then send him on his way,_ John decided as he climbed back into bed. _There’s too much risk for both of us if he stays._

With that thought, the doctor finally drifted off to sleep, hands shoved deep under his pillow. Meanwhile, the Avanzian in the other room stared at the opposite wall, mind turning frantically, until dawn broke and it stopped long enough to let him nap, if only for a little while.


	11. Chapter Ten

On the other side of Cadera, Mary tried not to look at the mother and child as they were led down the ladder and out the house. Instead, she focused on the young woman who had taken the papers back from her and tucked them away in her pocket once they were signed.

“Don’t feel guilty,” the FCD officer said, as if reading the older woman’s thoughts. “It was your life or their lives. Some people would be foolish enough to risk their own life for…” She nodded at the small family as they were bundled into the van, a slight sneer on her face. “… _them_.”

 _They’re still human_ , Mary thought, keeping those thoughts buried deep between her ears. She could no longer afford to think that way, even if it would take her a while to detach Avanzians from their humanity. _I might as well practice now._

“Everything finished?” she asked, voice shaking.

“I do believe so,” the young woman said, smiling. “Thank you for your co-operation, Ms Morstan.”

_Thank you for not arresting and-or executing me, officer._

The women shook hands and Mary showed the officer the door, bidding her good night before shutting and locking it for the night. Now that she was alone, she could finally release the guilt she’d been suppressing over the last hour. She covered her face with her hands, letting it wash over her for a moment or two. Then her mind took charge, arguing rationally. _You didn’t know those people. It was either your life or their lives, as the officer said._

Finally, the harsh voice sounded, the mental self-slap around the face that she’d been trying to encourage since the woman and her child walked into her house:

 _Get over it. You’re going to have to do plenty of this from now on. It might involve people you hold particularly close to your heart, which means what you’re feeling now will be ten times worse when you_ do _hand them over. Numb yourself._

Stretching, Mary ventured back up to the attic and rolled the bedding back up. Tucking it under her arm, she grabbed the pillows and threw them to the bottom of the ladder, using her free hand to steady herself as she descended. Managing not to tread on the pillows, she opened the airing cupboard, picked them up and bundled the bedding right at the back of the cupboard, pushing and pummelling them until she wore herself out and they were scrunched right at the back of the cupboard.

Closing the door and folding the attic ladder back up, she checked all doors and windows were locked and that the air raid alarm was still on. Once ensuring that it was indeed the case, she slipped into bed, turned off the light and lay awake for a long time, staring at her curtain-concealed window.

~x~

**_The next day_ **

John looked at his watch when he unlocked his door. Twenty past five – he had plenty of time before his planned dinner with Mary at seven to shower and get changed. As usual, he left his shoes by the door and went to drape his coat over the chair of the solitary chair at the small table when –

“ _Jesus_ ,” he hissed.

The young Avanzian who was still in his flat tilted his head at him, a confused expression flitting over his face.

“No…no, don’t worry.” John held up a hand in pacification. “I completely forgot you were here. Long day, you see.” He cleared his throat embarrassingly, swallowing. “Drink?”

Sherlock nodded. “Hot?”

John stared at him for a minute. “You want a hot drink?”

The young man nodded. “Cold…today.”

It hit John like a hurricane. Sherlock would have been used to temperatures in the late teens or early twenties Celsius around this time. Cadera recorded eight degrees this morning and had not changed much throughout the day.

The doctor smiled. “It is rather, isn’t it? If you come with me, I have many different hot drinks from which you can pick.”

Sherlock nodded hesitantly, pulling John’s dressing gown around him. On his long, lanky frame, it looked comically short and John made a mental note to buy some clothes for him when he was paid. Naturally, he’d have to order them online.

John wandered into the kitchen with the refugee following him, wincing where his broken ribs were still healing. The Caderan opened the cupboard, grabbing various coloured boxes of tea and listing them as he put them on the counter below him.

“I have standard tea, decaffeinated, chamomile, peppermint, chai, lemon, Earl Grey, green tea or English breakfast.”

Sherlock thought for a minute, counting in his head. Eventually, he held up his hand, palm flat and fingers spread.

“Five?” John frowned at him, confused.

The young man raised his eyebrow, uttering a little huff before tapping the chai box.

“Chai?”

“Chai,” the young man repeated. “Chai…tea.”

“Good. Right.”

Neither of them saw the small smiles that broke over the other’s face as John made the tea, pressing each teabag against the edge of its cup as it soaked in the steaming water.

~x~

**_Much later_ **

John opened the fridge, indicating to each item as he said it. “Milk. Orange juice. Vegetable drawer. Butter.”

Sherlock nodded after each item, filing them away in his mind.

John closed the fridge. “So you know where everything is, yes?”

 _Another question._ Sherlock nodded hesitantly, not fully understanding but not wanting to let it on.

“Right.” The veteran closed the fridge. “I don’t know what time I’ll be back.” He shrugged and tapped his watch as an approximate translation. “Just…” He dropped his voice. “Stay out of sight. Don’t order any food, don’t play any music, nothing like that.”

Sherlock looked at him, confused.

“Oh relax, I’m only partly serious,” the older man assured the younger, huffing a chuckle. The latter could barely string a sentence in Caderan, let alone order takeaway. There was minimal fear of him making noise whilst John was out.

Avoiding being seen was a different matter entirely.

“Wait here,” John told the expatriate, moving to the closest windows to them and pulling down the blackout blinds. _Thank god for wartime_ , he thought, _for being able to remain in it, if not participate in it._

Once he’d pulled down all the blinds in the flat, he turned the living room light on and strode past the Avanzian, silently indicating to him to stay where he was. Exiting the flat and leaving the door slightly ajar, he stood in front of the living room window. Not a millimetre of light spilled through; no light that he could see. His shoulders slumped in relief; at least the Avanzian didn’t have to stay in total darkness.

He walked back in, shutting the door behind him and giving the thumbs-up to the much younger man, whose expression of confusion seemed to be permanent.

“The lights.” He pointed at them.  “You can…” He shrugged, finally giving up. “Sod it. I’ll see you later. Have a good evening.”

The young man watched as the older one exited the flat, wondering if he realised he’d forgotten his cane again. Shrugging, he headed back into the living room and to the shelf which contained a small cluster of books. Running his finger along their spines, he selected one with large print ( _his friends have children –  they come over sometimes_ ) and looked at the cover. It seemed to be some sort of guide to the human body, which was nothing Sherlock didn’t already know save the language it was printed in. Deciding that it would suffice for the evening and wandering back to the living room, he sat cross-legged on the sofa and turned to the first page with nothing but the hum of the central heating system to accompany his self-teaching.


	12. Chapter Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for taking this long to update! I recently moved to a new country for my year abroad, so I've been busy settling in and exploring this new country. Anyway, I hope you enjoy. Updates may be fairly sporadic from now on - I'll work on this when I'm not tired/ busy, I promise! ~Mika
> 
> NB: The 'chemical weapons' thing was something that came about before the mess in Syria. Any mention of them is not me exploiting the present for the sake of subplots; it was merely a horrible coincidence.

**_Mirana’s, downtown Cadera_ **

“...so at that point I’m just looking at him as if to say, why? What on earth possessed you to do _that?_ ”

John laughed and Mary felt warmth spread through her. There was something different about him tonight; some change that had come about in the last week. She wondered what had caused it; if there was some change in his life to cause this change in demeanour.

The doctor laid his hand over Mary’s arm. “Another drink?”

The blonde nodded, a smile playing about her lips. “Same again, please,”

John signalled to the barman before turning his attention back to Mary. She took a deep breath, the question of the change in demeanour partly prompting her next question.

“Would you like to come back to mine after this?”

If he said no…well, she wouldn’t know what to think if he did indeed say no. She was not a suspicious or jealous person by nature, but she couldn’t imagine what else had caused this shift in John’s personality. She wondered if he realised she’d picked up on it, subtle as it was. If he had met someone else, she wished he would tell her now and save her the time and pain.

John opened his mouth to say no, but something in the back of his mind nagged at him to say yes. The Avanzian in his living room would be fine for the night, he assured himself. He knew where everything was and where to go in case of emergency (although he doubted a major emergency would occur, but the only Avanzians he’d encountered in his life were corpses).

He also knew to stay quiet at all times, although John sensed that Sherlock was frustrated and bored with his new surroundings.

“Sure. Of course.”

He heard the words spill from his lips, even if he didn’t fully recall saying them. Mary’s back straightened in surprise and relief, a genuine smile breaking out over her face despite the mild uncertainty she detected in his tone. A full glass was placed in front of her and another in front of John.

She swallowed a third of the contents, the pleasant burn of the alcohol mixing with and enhancing the hope in that space tucked somewhere by her diaphragm that regarded the aforementioned personality change.

~x~

Sherlock had reached the end of the encyclopaedia he’d found when someone hammered on the door, making him jump. He froze, holding his breath and moving neither muscle nor page, waiting to see if the hammering recommenced.

Sure enough, there was another round of door-busting, accompanied by a slurred shout of “JOHN! Buddy, it’s me!”

The accent was Rubarian – familiar – but the voice was new, belonging to a man. Sherlock fought the urge to peek out the window to get a look at the man at the door, wanting to pick apart the history of the stranger who had disturbed him. Controlling his breathing, he listened to the muffled footsteps as the man outside wandered around, restless.

“Lemme in, Johnny…I got news. ‘Member the chemical weapons I told you about a couple months back?”

Slowly, Sherlock lowered himself onto his hands and knees, ignoring the stabbing pain and shifting of his broken ribs and hoping the man’s hearing was distorted enough by alcohol to not detect his movements as he began crawling towards the light. He didn’t know whether or not the light could be seen from behind the blackout blinds, though he now knew that was why John had temporarily gone out, come back in and made a vague gesture before going out for the evening.

“Well…”

There was a creaking sound and Sherlock halted in his quest to turn off the light, limbs shaking as they attempted to support his weight. There was another thump and clattering sounds as the strange man pressed himself against the door to speak his next few sentences.

“They’re happenin’. They passed the tests and they’re gonna be used in Avanzia. This war’s gonna be over by Christmas, just you wait.”

Sherlock lowered his hovering hand slowly to the carpeted floor followed by himself to distribute his weight more evenly, all without making a sound despite his heart thrumming in his ears. Meanwhile, the man at the door uttered a little snort and let the letterbox clatter shut, strolling off into the night.

The young man exhaled in relief, sitting back on his haunches. Shivering, he turned to his side to grab the quilt, threw it onto the sofa and hauled himself up after it, wriggling his way under it and tucking it in below his chin. His ribs throbbed, sending jolts of pain through his torso and making him wince. Despite this, he managed to get comfortable, staring at the cover of the closed encyclopaedia until he finally caved in to sleep clutching onto the quilt surrounding him.

~x~

**_Rubaria, AIRCO refugee camp_ **

“D’you think Sherlock’s alright?”

Lestrade gave Molly a strange look.

“I mean…” She put her cup down and drew her sleeping bag about her. “We haven’t seen him since the shelter was bombed and I…I just hope he’s alright.”

“I’m sure he is,” he assured her. “He’s probably found someone in Avanzia to stay with or is somewhere in Cadera…What?”

“I thought Avanzians weren’t allowed in Cadera,”

The former DI made a dismissive sound. “You think that would stop him going?”

Molly shrugged. _True._

“Hey.” The much older man’s voice softened and he shuffled closer to the younger woman, one arm loosely draped around her. “I’m sure he’s found a way to get to safety. His brother might have taken him in.”

Molly stared. “He has a brother?”

“You didn’t know?”

“No.”

“He’s about six or seven years older and works for the Caderan government. That’s probably the only reason he hasn’t been kicked out of Cadera yet.”

Molly uttered a low whistle. “How do _you_ know Sherlock had a brother?”

“More than that, I’ve met him.”

There was something in the former DI’s tone which made any line of questioning die in Molly’s throat. Swallowing, she nodded, shifting herself closer to him and daring to rest her head on his shoulder.

Lestrade tightened his arm around her in response, rubbing her arm with his hand.

“Everything okay here?” someone asked them in Avanzian, though with a Rubarian accent. The couple nodded in affirmation. “Excellent. Don’t forget that there are Rubarian classes starting at nine tomorrow morning,”

“We won’t. Thanks.”

The woman soon disappeared, leaving the two of them alone. Molly looked around at the other refugees settling for the night and then at the large structure which functioned as their temporary home. She thought about home and everything and everyone she’d left behind and she wondered if she’d ever see that again.

She dragged her sleeping bag up to her chin, trying to quell the ache in her heart and shut her eyes, attempting to sleep.


	13. Chapter Twelve

The next day dawned a little brighter for John – for the first time that he could recall, he was actually looking forward to going to work; looking forward to coming home; looking forward to seeing Mary again next week, as he had promised her he would. In addition to this, she would also come over to his after their weekly date.

Now, however, he had an hour to shower and perhaps grab something to eat before his shift at the hospital. He unlocked his door and stepped inside, a small tune escaping from his lips as he shut the door behind him, turned around and –

“Jesus _ffffhhh…_ ” he hissed, almost stumbling over in surprise. He’d forgotten that there was a six-foot twenty-six-year old Avanzian immigrant in his flat that he needed to conceal, if only for a few more days. “Sorry. Not you. I just…forgot you were here. That’s all.”

As expected, the young man said nothing, choosing to give a blank stare and move towards the kitchen.

Tension gathering somewhere below his ribs, John moved swiftly and also in the direction of the kitchen, although he knew there couldn’t truly be any substances that could be manipulated into being lethal. He had to remind himself that he still knew nothing of the man; for all he knew, the Avanzian could be a spy or mole.

Pushing his distrust down ( _until there’s concrete evidence_ ), he stepped into the kitchen and observed the young man as he searched for something, wincing every so often and clutching his side. Raising his head, the veteran took a deep breath, asking his question in a slow and clear voice:

“What are you looking for?”

The Avanzian stopped what he was doing and turned around, hands still, frozen in mid-air.

~x~

Sherlock heard the questioning intonation in the Caderan’s voice and instinctively stopped what he was doing, turning slowly to face him. He saw the suspicion written all over the war veteran’s face and completely froze, his heart racing and ribs aching. He knew it looked suspicious, but he couldn’t tell the man he was merely looking for painkillers.

He swung his head from left to right, looking for a way to calm the guardedness of the other man in the kitchen and convey his intentions. He knew it looked suspicious; adding that to the fact that he was an Avanzian probably reinforced any doubts the other man held.

He closed his eyes, holding his hands up with their palms facing the Caderan whilst he tried to find a way to convey his intentions to him. _How had he communicated with me so far…Pointing. Body language. That’s it!_

Straightening up, he opened his eyes and turned to face John, his ribs protesting as he did so. Slowly, looking the doctor in the eyes, he lifted his shirt and pointed at his injured ribs.

“Ah. Ow,” he uttered, not knowing how to express his pain otherwise.

Clarity shone in the middle-aged man’s eyes and he exhaled, face clearing of tension. “Your ribs are hurting. Right. Let me find the ibuprofen.”

Sherlock himself breathed a sigh of relief, stepping aside to let the doctor reach the right cabinet with the medicines in. Turning quickly ( _too_ quickly, his ribs throbbing painfully) to his left, he grabbed a glass from the draining board and filled it full of water, having learned from the first time he’d taken painkillers that he was unable to dry swallow them.

The Caderan handed the strip of pills to the young man, tapping it as he did and holding up two fingers. “Two,”

“Two,” Sherlock repeated, nodding in understanding as he pushed up two pills, bursting them through the foil cover. Chucking the pair of them in his mouth, he flooded them with a mouthful of water, swallowing the ensemble in one go.

John couldn’t help but smile as the young man took the ibuprofen. Taking the strip back, he slid it into its cardboard container and put the box of medicines back in its cupboard.

“Mmf.”

He turned around to see the young man wince again as he put the glass down. His doubts were eroded slightly by the scene before him, affection seeping into and surrounding them, softening them somewhat.

John swallowed, folding his arms as if the aforementioned affection actually _was_ about to burst through his chest. “Give it a bit of time, they won’t take long to kick in,”

The Avanzian nodded, though John was sure he didn’t fully understand – a defensive gesture, or maybe a dismissive one, protecting the young man’s pride. Really, he was less a fish out of water than a teenager again, desperately out of place and lost, but too proud to ask for help, though John concluded it would not be wise to voice those conclusions.

Just then, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Johnny, it’s me!”

John pinched the bridge of his nose. “Hi, David,”

“How’re you doing?”

“Yeah, fine, you?”

“Good, good. Listen, I was at yours last night but you weren’t in…”

“What time did you call ‘round?” John’s gaze settled on Sherlock’s face, watching for reactions and knowing the young man could hear the loud Rubarian voice even halfway across the kitchen.

“Um…I guess it must have been about ten?”

John nodded slowly. “Right. Yeah, I was out with Mary last night,”

David gave a low whistle. “Anyway, I’m not sure if you’ve heard or not…have you heard?”

“Heard about what?” John pressed his fingers to his temples.

~x~

Sherlock was relieved that both his intentions were clearly conveyed through body language and the pills were starting to work. Whilst it didn’t take the pain away completely, it made it more…tolerable, at least. He could perhaps straighten up whilst stationary and walk a short way, but not much more than that. Even then, he wasn’t completely sure. This was why he hated pain – it brought with it multiple uncertainties on top of distracting him from his work.

One thing he did know with absolute certainty, however, was that even without understanding the words the man on the other end of the phone spoke, it was the same man who had almost tried to break the door down last night. _Rubarian accent. If he’s in Cadera, he’s more than likely working for the government. Forty-two years and two months old. Smoker._

He wanted to meet this man, just so he could complete the picture in his head by the Rubarian’s voice.

“What about them?” he heard John ask, followed by an incredulous “They _are_?”

Sherlock locked his gaze on John’s face. Something had changed on it; the relaxed expression of before was replaced with something that looked like worry. John’s gaze was also locked onto Sherlock’s, which meant – to the younger man – that whatever was wrong was related to him.

 _Or Avanzia_ , a small voice supplied.

Sherlock gasped in realisation as everything fell into place.

_Government – Rubaria – the chemical weapons. Cadera are going to use them against Avanzia._

~x~

“The chemical weapons! Y’know, the ones Cadera and Rubaria have jointly been developing against Avanzia?”

“What about them?”

“They’ve agreed, John.” David sounded breathless, almost excited. “We’re gonna use ‘em against the Avanzians,”

“They _are_?” John exclaimed incredulously, heart sinking. He’d dreaded this news. He knew what chemical weapons did; he thought they’d been outlawed a long time ago because of that. He looked at the young Avanzian across from him, worry combining with sympathy for the young man. He hoped Sherlock _did_ have someone to stay with here in Cadera, because very soon, he would no longer be able to go back home.

The two men locked eyes for a moment, and John swore he could almost pinpoint the exact moment that Sherlock realised what the doctor had just heard. Without another word, the curly-haired refugee straightened up and made his way back to the living room, limp still very much present, shoulders slumped a mere inch or two with the weight of the news.


	14. Chapter Thirteen

Opening his mouth in an attempt to say something before closing it again as he watched the young man go, John followed him back to the living room, watching as he curled back up under the duvet that was spread all over the sofa. For a minute, the former army doctor just stood at the perimeter of the living room watching the young man, wondering if he’d correctly guessed what had happened. Had Sherlock heard what David had said over the phone? Understood, somehow?

 _Impossible,_ John thought. _He can barely string a sentence together in Caderan, let alone understand a whole speech._

He reached towards the younger man, who had tucked himself so far under the duvet he was now just a white lump, save for –

– _the ends of greying curls straggling out from under an Avanzian helmet, dust falling to mingle with the blood pooling out from beneath his too-still body, explosions near and distant sounding –_

John flinched. Where had _that_ come from? His thoughts about the war usually took the form of dreams. Flashbacks were few and far between. His outstretched hand hovered, shaking. Closing it into a fist, he withdrew it and shoved it straight by his side, flexing his fingers as if crushing the flashback in the palm of his hand.

“Sh-Sherlock…”

The name hung in the air like a curse word. There was a flurry of activity and Sherlock’s head appeared, face contorted into a _what?_ expression.

John curled his hand around his ear. “Did you…hear?”

Sherlock’s gaze flicked between the older man’s face and ear, processing the words. Swallowing, he eked out a reply once he was sure he understood. “Yes.” He straightened up, facing John. “Chemical weapons.” Pause. “Home.”

 _Well, I’ve clearly underestimated you_ , John thought. Despite himself, he felt a little sorry for the younger man. This sympathy, however, was undermined two seconds later by the rumbling of his stomach. He uttered an “oh” of surprise.

“Are you hungry?” he asked the young man.

“No,”

 _Very well._ John turned on his heel and headed to the kitchen, firing up the oven and looking around for any scraps left in the kitchen that he could cobble together to make something. He found some leftover tins and a frozen kiev, making a mental note to go shopping at the weekend.

Once his scraps were cooked and piled on a plate, he wandered back into the living room and sat carefully down on the sofa, searching for the remote.

“Bit of Caderan TV?” he asked the young man lightly, aware of its quality even if the Avanzian wasn’t. Sherlock shrugged a _yeah, sure, why not_ in reply, flopping quasi-dramatically back on the sofa next to John, who switched on the TV and soon found something to watch.

The younger man tried to watch along, but even without understanding the language, he soon found it boring, choosing instead to watch the former army doctor as he shovelled in mouthful upon mouthful of food. A corner of the young man’s mouth lifted in something resembling a smile – _he’s eating more than he did when we first met_.

John did not miss the way Sherlock’s mouth twitched in a smile, although he did question the reason for its presence.

~x~

**_Somewhere in the centre of Cadera_ **

The dark-haired woman knocked on the door, file clutched in her other hand. “Sir?”

Mycroft wiped his mouth with a tissue. “Ah, Anthea. Come in. I trust this is to do with my brother?”

“Yes. We managed to locate him, although these photos were dated three days ago.” The _he may have moved on_ was left unspoken.

The suited man detected it instantly. “Three days is fine,” he sighed wearily, holding his hand out for the file. Once he had the file, he opened it to find the photos Anthea was talking about. Blurred and in black-and-white. He _was_ disappointed.

The first photo was dated three days ago on 17th May and showed Sherlock being accosted by a member of Unbroken Circle. _Steven Waters again_. Mycroft frowned, sliding that photo over to look at the second one, the timestamp on it stating that it was taken twenty minutes after the first. His younger brother was lying on the ground, his assaulter looking like he was walking away and –

A presence in the corner of the photograph caught his eye, barely illuminated by the few lights on the street on which the event was taking place. Mycroft knew exactly whom this man was, the information on him being in the file underneath the photographs. However, the man did not come into a better view until the third photograph, where he appeared to be helping Sherlock up, cane forgotten at the other end of the street. The photos did not show much else but Mycroft concluded that Sherlock had gone with the shorter man.

Mycroft sat forward some more, intrigued by this development. Someone had _helped_ his brother when he was in trouble and Mycroft wasn’t able to, as had happened several times in the past. This in itself was unusual and the older man wondered if the third man in the photo had expected – or demanded – something in return for sheltering Sherlock. He hoped not. Going by the photos, his brother had very little on him to begin with, not least his level of Caderan.

Frowning at this troubling thought, Mycroft put the photos aside and drew out the sheet of paper with the information on the third man in them. _John Watson, MD. Graduate of… mm…discharged from the army on medical grounds, works in a local clinic. Unmarried, no children, one-room flat in the Biurin district. One sister. Born and bred Caderan, of Cozzese descent on his mother’s side._

Mycroft slid all the files back in the folder and set it aside, resting his hand on the arm of his chair. The limited means by which he could keep an eye on his brother was posing an obstructive problem, although if Sherlock was still at the doctor’s flat, then he had nothing to worry about.

Supposedly.

“Anthea!” he called, shifting in his seat and clutching the folder again.

The younger woman entered the room, heels clicking on the floor, giving him a questioning look.

“I want more information on this…John Watson. Everything. Criminal record, last bank transactions, address history.”

The young woman nodded in understanding. “You also have a meeting in five minutes with the Rubarian Defence Minister,”

 _Ah yes._ That _man_. “Thank you,” he said.

Anthea nodded and walked back out again, taking the file with her. Waiting a few minutes, Mycroft glanced over to where his six o’clock vanilla crème crown would be after the meeting with the Rubarian ( _Rubarians, God help me, why are there_ so many _Rubarian politicians involved in this war_ ) and followed soon after.


	15. Chapter Fourteen

John had gone to bed the previous night with Sherlock’s reaction to the chemical weapons on his mind, wondering what to label it. Despite the apparent emotional reaction, the young man had maintained his usual blank mask, although John wasn’t sure how much of that was the Avanzian’s usual nature and how much of that was triggered by being a red rag in a land full of bulls, so to speak.

Maybe John was just projecting and the young man did not have any kind of emotional reaction. _What kind of person feels nothing upon hearing their homeland is going to be obliterated?_ He asked himself.

Pin-drop silence reigned in the flat when he woke up the next morning. He waited for a minute, listening for any movements from the living room. He swung his legs out of bed when he heard none, padding out of his room and through the kitchen into the living room. There, he found the young man sitting on the thick winter duvet, squinting at a book in his hands. It looked very thick with greyish lines indicating a fine print. John wondered what he was reading, harbouring no doubts that he would find out soon.

Silently, he turned on his heel and made to make his morning tea, realising as soon as he’d flicked on the kettle that it was empty. Sighing softly, he flicked it off again, lifted it off its heating pad and brought it over to the kitchen sink to fill it when he caught the young man out the corner of his eye.

“Morning,” he ventured cautiously.

“M…Morning,” Sherlock echoed. John noticed he still had the book in his hand, a gap from where he was using his finger as a bookmark. He was already about a third of the way through the tome. The army doctor wondered how much of that Sherlock had actually understood, given that it was all in Caderan. He would know – seeing more of the book now, he recognised it as one of his university textbooks.

“Yes, I said that,”

“No,” Sherlock replied, frustration in his voice. “Morning, John.”

The older man stared at the younger before the meaning was made apparent. “Oh. Yes.” Turning back to the tap, he filled the kettle and replaced it on its heating pad, flicking it on and opening the cupboard above it.

“Do you want some regular tea?” he asked. “Just a little? To try?”

The young man nodded hesitantly. John pulled out two cups and a small porcelain teapot he hadn’t used in a long time, wiping the dust off it and putting a teabag into it. The kettle clicked off and he poured the water into the teapot, giving the contents a stir and getting the milk out the fridge.

Whilst John was doing this, he became very aware of the young man’s icy ( _blue? Grey? Green?_ ) eyes watching his every moved. The back of neck prickled in response and he rolled his shoulders slightly, rubbing it as he turned back to face the young man.

“What…” He cleared his throat, gesturing to the book in Sherlock’s hand. “What are you reading?”

Sherlock looked down at the book in his hand, holding it out to John with a hand that shook slightly under the weight. Sure enough, it was one of John’s university textbooks – one of the denser, more boring works he’d had to read through in his final year.

John’s fingers ghosted over the cover. “Why are you reading this?”

Sherlock squared his shoulders, left hand rubbing his right forearm. _I saw it and I thought it looked interesting. Thought I’d be able to understand a few words and piece together the meanings of individual sentences from the fragments._

“Right,” the former army doctor muttered, taking the book from the Avanzian. He ran one hand over the cover, not knowing what to say. The Avanzian’s intelligence was as blindingly obvious as his frustration at the language barriers between them. Putting the book down on the counter, the doctor turned back to the brewing tea before he forgot it, pouring a full cup for himself and a smaller cup for Sherlock before adding milk to both and handing the cup to the younger man.

Sherlock studied the hot contents in the cup for a minute, sniffing them warily. _No smell._ He looked at John – no guilt was writ across his face, no particular muscle twitch or crinkle out of place to indicate guilt. Keeping his eyes locked onto those of the older man, he raised the cup to his lips and took a sizeable swallow.

John waited a few moments as both men drunk their tea, almost seeing the young man process the hot liquid in his mind. He didn’t know what teas they had in Avanzia, if any. _Maybe this is the first time he’s ever tried this kind of tea._

“Good?” he asked, giving him a thumbs-up. Just in time, he remembered that that was a particularly offensive gesture in Avanzia, changing it to an ‘okay’ signal.

Sherlock did not miss the quick hand signal change, stiffening at the offensive gesture.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean…” John trailed off. _Apologising to an Avanzian?_ He wondered what his comrades would have said. Probably the same as David had said a few months ago: _typical Caderan, would apologise to a wall if he walked into it._ “How’s the tea?”

The young man pulled a face and held the cup back out to John, who chuckled.

“Sugar?”

The curly-haired man nodded.

“Okay.”

There was still half a cup’s worth of tea left in the pot. John drained it into Sherlock’s cup and added some sugar and milk, making sure to stir it well before handing it back to the Avanzian. Without another word, the curly-haired man downed the half-cup in his hands and handed the empty mug back to the doctor before whirling back to the living room.

John put the mugs in the sink and followed him. “Sherlock,”

The young man lifted his head.

“Did you like _that_ tea?”

He was answered by a vigorous nod.

John smiled. “Good. That’s something to remember for next time.” He entered the living room and sat down on the sofa, his leg beginning to throb. “Sherlock, the chances are you’re going to have to stay in Cadera for a long time. And outside this flat…you’re not exactly safe, especially when you only know about ten words of Caderan.” He swallowed, shifting forward. “You _need_ to learn Caderan and I sense you’re someone who likes to do this sort of thing on their own. That said…”

Sherlock tilted his head to one side, looking at the doctor questioningly.

“Since it’s my native language and I might be your only point of contact with the world for a while, would you like me to help you?”

The older man could almost see the sneer climbing up the young man’s face. _I don’t need help._

He held his hands in defeat. “Okay. Fine. I thought so. But at least let me get you some books from the library that might help.”

The sneer dissipated from the young man’s face and he looked down at his crossed legs.

John found his cane and used it to push himself up, feeling the atmosphere change.

“How about another cup of tea, hmm?”

The dark, curly head snapped up and nodded vigorously, eyes bright.

“Chai or sugar tea?”

“Sugar tea,”

John didn’t resist the smile that broke out over his face that time.


	16. Chapter Fifteen

**_Caderan City Library_ **

“That’s not your usual area, John,” the young woman behind the desk chuckled as John put the small collection of books on the conveyer belt.

“I’m meant to be babysitting some toddlers soon. Don’t think they’re going to want to read the _Clinical Atlas of Human Anatomy_ , myself,”

“True.” The redhead scanned the third book and put it on top of the other two, nodding towards the row of machines against the wall on the other side of the library lobby. “You didn’t want to use the self-service machines, then?”

John made a face. “Machines and I…don’t have a great relationship. I prefer humans,”

“Yeah, that seems to be fairly common. Mind you, we’ve hardly had anyone in the last few years to use them, so they’re just great hunks of wastes of space right now.”

John nodded, looking around. The library was the only public service that had not been shut down or bombed in the last ten years, although it was currently sparsely populated due to a combination of it being the middle of a working day and the fact that many library-goers had long departed Cadera. The latter thought made him more than a little melancholy.

He dug his card out of his wallet and handed it to the redhead. She scanned it and handed it back to him, smiling warmly. “How’s Harry?”

“She’s…ah, fine,” John bit out, catching the real answer between his teeth before it could escape. In truth, he hadn’t spoken to his sister since the disastrous evening at the restaurant and she in turn hadn’t phoned him since.

Fortunately, the redhead heard John’s tone and did not press further, scanning the last book and sliding the pile towards the middle-aged man. “Thanks. Have a good day.”

“You too, Ella.” John flashed a brief smile at her before scooping all his books into a bag and heading towards the exit.

As he made his way out of the library and through the semi-deserted streets to the usual block of flats, he was accosted by a shout of “Hey!” and the sounds of heavy, approaching footsteps. Even without turning his head, he knew that they belonged to Steven Waters.

“You were there the other night, weren’t you?”

He was from the rougher parts of Cadera; John could tell by the ‘t’s that were missing at the end of his words. “The other night?”

“Yeah.” Waters sniffed unpleasantly. “When I was seein’ off that curly,”

John’s jaw locked at the epithet, knowing that he was talking about Sherlock. “Your point being?” he asked, voice akin to sandpaper.

Waters crowded him, chest out. “You know where he is?”

John swallowed. “No.” He forced a pause. “Don’t even know who you’re talking about,”

“Yeah, you do. Tall, thin…coulda snapped him in two, t’ be honest. Expensive coat. Prob’ly stole that though.”

John contorted his face into a mystified expression. “No. No idea at all.”

Waters’ nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed, seeming to grow in height. “Do you know what the consequences are for _lying_ to me?”

 _No, but I_ do _know you can use three-syllable words_ , John retorted mentally. “I’m not lying. I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

A threatening pause filled the air as Waters processed what John was telling him, making up his mind as to whether the shorter man was lying or not. Eventually, he shrugged, deciding he wasn’t, but pressing his index finger against the former army doctor’s chest.

“You. I’m watching you.”

The soldier in John was growling territorially, ready to break Waters’ wrist, responding to the heavy threat thickening the air, but Waters removed his finger from John’s chest and his presence from the other’s personal space before suppression was no longer an option. John watched him walk away until he was comfortable enough to head in the direction of his own home.

~x~

Mary peeked round the corner of a partially-standing entrance and saw Waters lumbering in her direction. A few minutes later, John moved off in the direction of his flat. Once he was out of sight, she thought it safe to step out in full view of the Unbroken Circle participant (although ‘safe’ was not a word she would use in front of _anyone_ who claimed to be a member of the right-wing party).

“What did he say?” she asked in a low voice once Waters was close enough to her. She tried not to recoil from the excessive amount of spray deodorant reaching her nose.

“He says he doesn’t know anything about the curly – ”

“ _Avanzian_. They’re called Avanzians,” Mary butted in sharply.

Waters squared his shoulders, grunting. “He doesn’t know anything about the _Avanzian_.”

Mary found that hard to believe. Her source had told her that there were over seventy Avanzians on that truck last week, most of which were accounted for. The FCD were hunting down the last of them – or at least, their location. The people who were identified as smuggling Avanzians would be arrested subsequently, one by one, once all of the immigrants were located. Mary saw a lot of weaknesses in that decision, but since she was helping hunt down the last ten, she didn’t want to speak up about them.

“I’m not buying that,” she muttered, thinking aloud.

Waters’ fist creaked as he clenched it into a fist. “Want me to send some boys round?”

“No!” Mary almost shouted. She cleared her throat, straightening up. “No. Don’t…ah…”

“Beat the shit out of him?”

“That.” The young woman dug in her pockets for the tight roll of cash she promised him. “Here’s the hundred I promised you. Thank you for your time,”

Waters took the roll and unfurled it, feeling each individual note before stuffing it in his own pocket, satisfied. Without saying another word, he turned and began walking back in the direction he came.

“You too,” Mary muttered sarcastically, stepping back into the archway and reaching into her bag for the plastic wallet she knew was in there. She took it out, gently sliding out the photos contained within the translucent piece of stationery and scrutinising them closely. There were many of them that showed Waters accosting one of the missing Avanzians – tall, curly haired and with an expensive looking coat ( _probably stolen from somewhere_ , came the dark, unbidden thought). However, the ones she was interested in showed a third man in the picture, barely illuminated by the slivers of street light cast on him. He was shown helping the Avanzian away from the scene, but outside the photo frames, Mary couldn’t say.

The third man was short with a stocky build and looked a hell of a lot like her boyfriend. Of course, she rationalised, she could be jumping to conclusions. John could have walked the Avanzian to a sheltered part of the city for the night and just left him there.

_No. That’s not in his nature._

A nauseating knot formed in her stomach as she realised what the other, more likely path was – that John had treated any wounds the Avanzian might have sustained from the encounter with Waters and had sheltered – _was now sheltering_ – him.

She had hoped there would be nothing tying the missing Avanzians to John when his name came up next on the computer’s database. Breathing in deeply to suppress her roiling stomach, she knew that she had her theory. All she needed was proof.


	17. Chapter Sixteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I warned you about the time skips... ;) ~Mika

**_A few days later_ **

“Alright. Present simple of ‘to be’.” John put down the book and looked the Avanzian square in the eyes. “I am.”

“I…am.” The hesitancy in Sherlock’s voice was fabricated; an attempt to convince the older man in front of him that he was taking it in.

The arched eyebrow John gave Sherlock outwardly stated he wasn’t buying it. “You are.”

“You are.”

“He is.”

“He his.” _Wait, that’s not right…_

“No. Remember what we said with this one.” John paused. Sherlock nodded. “Okay. Let’s try this again. He…is.”

“He is.” _Better, Sherlock._

John smiled. “Good. _She_ is.”

“She is. We is.”

“We are,” John corrected gently.

“We are.”

Sherlock’s Avanzian accent added a slight roll to the ‘r’s in his words. John secretly found it endearing, although he knew they’d have to work hard to lose the accent as best as they could. “You are,”

The young man gave him an irritated look. _I know all of this._

“I _know_ you know, considering that’s mostly what we’ve been working on over the last few days,” John replied, weariness to his tone. “But until I can _hear_ that you’ve got it, we’re not stopping.”

Sherlock pulled a face. _Fine._ “You are.”

John nodded, satisfied. “They are.”

“They are.”

“Okay.” _There we go. See? Not so hard._ John flipped a few pages until he found the one he was looking for. “‘To have’. Don’t give me that face. You’re worse at conjugating ‘to have’ than ‘to be’.” He raised his eyebrows slightly. “After this, I’ll go and get you some clothes.”

Sherlock nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. Although his ribs had completely healed, he was getting new aches and pains from having to sleep on the sofa all the time.

The doctor tilted his head, regarding the younger man. Over the last few days, he’d come back to the flat to find Sherlock reading ( _trying to read_ ) one of the many myriad books on his shelf. From the titles, he guessed that the Avanzian’s interests lay in the scientific field. From the restless pacing and clanking that occurred in the kitchen when John was trying to sleep, he also guessed that the young man was bored with being confined.

John wasn’t surprised. It was a whole week since he found ( _rescued?_ ) Sherlock. The young man had been remarkably patient with it all. The doctor made a mental note to find something to keep Sherlock occupied along with the clothes.

“Okay. Let’s start. I have.”

“Hi have.”

John looked him in the eyes, carefully enunciating each word. “I. Have.”

“I. _Have_.” There was an almost mocking undertone to the young man’s echo.

John ignored it. “You have.”

“You have.”

“He has.”

“He has.”

“ _She_ has.”

“She has.”

“We have.”

“We have, you have, they have,” Sherlock drawled, almost throwing himself backwards into the back of the sofa. _I_ know _all the conjugations._

John closed the book, getting up to put it on top of the pile on the shelf and sliding his coat on over his shoulders. “Fine,” he said quietly. “I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

Sherlock watched as the army veteran grabbed his keys and wallet and left the flat. _Calmly. Not storming out._ He waited until the other man’s footsteps faded before he got up and wandered towards the pile of borrowed books, sliding a hand between the top and second ones. The gaudy colours hurt his eyes, the tone of the language insultingly patronising, but if it taught children the necessary language skills, then it must have a useful function.

Sherlock picked the book up and thumbed through it until he reached the pages John was reading from. Sitting back down, he studied the pages intensely as if they were part of a thousand-page treatise on the human body, not turning them until they were stored in his mind palace.

~x~

John returned two hours later with two bags of clothes and one bag of small to medium-sized boxes, setting them on the table. Sherlock had barely moved from his spot on the duvet-covered floor, the library books surrounding him like a child with his toys. The army doctor saw that the Avanzian had one of the borrowed books in his hands and was studying it intently, as if it were a specimen in a laboratory.

He cleared his throat softly. “Sherlock?”

The Avanzian looked up from his book, curls trembling as he did. “Yes?”

John hadn’t expected a verbal response. “I, uh…I bought some clothes for you. Looked at the labels on the ones you had on you when I…” _When I rescued you._ “When you came to…live with me. So I hope they fit.” He gestured to the two blue bags.

Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement.

John drew a smaller bag from the bigger, third bag. “I also brought takeaway – I’m hungry and you haven’t eaten since yesterday. Hope you like Uscitese.”

Sherlock had never had Uscitese food, but whatever was in the bag smelt delicious and it was true – he _hadn’t_ eaten in a day. His stomach supplied a soft gurgle as if agreeing with this thought.

John disappeared briefly, returning with two plates, two forks and two glasses of water, scooping the bag of food by its handles along the way. Picking his way carefully over the duvet and books, he took his usual place next to Sherlock, setting down everything he had in his hands and serving the food once he had done so, naming the food that was in each box for Sherlock’s benefit.

As the men ate, John turned on the TV in time for the news, deciding to leave it on since there was rarely anything of quality during the week at this time. There were several items about the individual events of the war in Avanzia and Cadera, including the complete erasure of a district on the other side of Cadera and an announcement of the exact date of Cadera’s use of chemical weapons. John looked at Sherlock at that but gleaned nothing from that pale, angular face.

An item about a missing person who was found dead, apparently of a stroke, _did_ glean a reaction. In fact, Sherlock sat up, gripping the duvet as he watched the rest of the news item, rapt. There was a sparkle in his eyes that John had never seen before.

 _He’s interested in_ murder? _Bit morbid._

“Tourist Killer,” Sherlock breathed in Avanzian. _I thought I would never have the opportunity to solve this one. Seems he’s turned up in Cadera._

For the first time in a week, it was John’s turn to not understand what the other was saying. “What?”

Sherlock closed his mouth, unable to directly translate into Caderan. It didn’t ultimately matter as the end credits started and John finished his plate, looking at the refugee next to him.

“Finished?”

Sherlock considered this for a moment, nodding. John cleared up and checked the time, eyes widening as the realisation of what time it was hit him. He’d almost forgotten. He hurried back to the living room, panic and urgency thrumming through his veins, voice low.

“Remember the people I told you about, the officers who would take you away if they found you here?”

 _People. Officers. Take me away._ Sherlock vaguely remembered something John had told him a couple of days ago with those words, but he was deep in his mind palace at the time and hadn’t really registered it. He dipped his head.

Mistaking that for a nod, John continued. “Well, they’re coming round soon. You need to hide.”

 _Hide?_ Sherlock frowned in confusion, but John had already snatched up the bags on the table and was facing the direction of his bedroom.

“The duvet.”

The young man stood, confused.

“No, the _duvet_. On the floor.”

 _Oh._ Sherlock grasped the duvet, bundling it up in his arms and following John.

~x~

Dumping everything on the floor, John opened his mostly-empty wardrobe, shoving the clothes-filled hangers aside and splaying his fingertips over the back of the piece of furniture until he found the flaw he was looking for in the otherwise smooth wood. Pressing the button, he flattened his hands against the panel as it popped out and slid it back, shining a light into the space it revealed.

 _A false back. Clever, John. Very clever._ Sherlock looked at John, who nodded before extending an arm towards the dark space. Without another word, the lanky Avanzian squeezed himself into the space afforded to him, noting he was not the only thing in there.

“Yeah…there are a couple of other things I’m not supposed to have.” John shrugged, putting the bags in after him, half-concealing the boxes. “Luckily, there was this space. Came with the wardrobe. Anyway, I’ll let you out when the officers have gone, alright?”

Sherlock nodded in the dim light of the torch. Giving a brusque nod, John slid the panel closed, moved the clothes back to their original positions and rolled up the duvet, pushing it right at the back of the top shelf of the wardrobe. Rolling his shoulders, he strode back into the kitchen, attempting to eradicate every last trace of a second person living here before the FCD rang his bell ten minutes later.

Taking a deep, cleansing breath, John gave one final look around and headed towards the door, adrenaline sweeping his veins for the second time in a week.


	18. Chapter Seventeen

“Good evening, Dr. Watson.”

The pair of officers that greeted him were different to the ones that had come last weekend. These ones were two males in their thirties as opposed to a young man and woman. John felt a prickle up his spine as he asked for and saw their IDs – they were older, more experienced and therefore more likely to conduct a thorough search than last week’s pair. He stepped aside to let them in, trying to quell the reluctance in his heart. The younger man turned to the veteran as they entered.

“Leg’s better, is it, Doctor?”

“Much. Thanks,” John bit out, attempting to shape the words as if speaking casually.

“Where’s your cane?”

“Under the bed,”

“Anderson!” the older FCD officer barked. “Remember what we’re here for!”

The younger officer locked his jaw grimly, hurrying to catch his superior officer. John followed them, back so rigid with tension he could feel his muscles aching, the beginnings of an adrenaline rush creeping into his veins.

The older officer headed right into the kitchen whilst the younger swooped left into the conjoined living and dining room.

“Alone tonight, Doctor?” the younger officer ( _Anderson_ , John reminded himself) asked, fingering the library books. “Or expecting someone?”

“I am indeed. Alone, I mean.” John swallowed as Anderson opened every cupboard and drawer, examining each storage space for about five minutes. John swallowed down a remark of Avanzians not being small enough to fit into a twenty-four-by-eight-inch drawer, allowing the man to get on with his duties. He’d be out soon, or so the army doctor hoped.

~x~

In the cramped, confined space, Sherlock turned on the small torch John had left him, moving his arm around the limited available space to see what other clandestine treasures were stowed away. The torch brushed some material, which sparked the young man’s curiosity. Drawing his torch hand back, he angled its beam onto the material in question. Slowly, the light revealed some trousers, a shirt and a jacket, splashed with olive in various shades.

 _A military uniform?_ Sherlock frowned. _A Caderan military uniform. I thought they had a policy of returning uniform after service has ended. What’s that doing here?_

Reaching up, he rubbed the material between his index finger and thumb. It was thick, the texture smoother than he expected. He directed the torch upwards – the space he was in was just about big enough for him to stand if he stooped, but it would get uncomfortable after a while. There was also the risk of being heard by the FCD officers who were in the flat.

Deleting the idea, Sherlock shone the torch around him, the dark space bringing back unpleasant memories of the van that had transported him from Avanzia to Cadera in the first place. This time, it was musky wood and winter cool that surrounded his senses rather than sweaty bodies and suffocating heat. Shaking his head to dispel the memory, he saw a few boxes in the corners of the space he was in. Most were covered in dust, some were labelled and others were slightly crumpled, presumably from where Sherlock’s entrance had left its mark.

Sherlock manoeuvred his lanky body forward, stabilising himself by throwing his hands out to the sides. Upon hearing the resulting _thump_ , he froze.

~x~

John heard a thumping sound coming from the direction of his room and froze, hoping beyond hope that the officer still examining the deepest shadows of his empty cabinet drawers hadn’t noticed. Just as he dared to feel that hope, Anderson straightened up, narrowing his eyes slightly in the direction of the sound.

“What was that?”

“The plumbing,” John replied quickly ( _too quickly, now he’ll be suspicious,_ his brain supplied). “It tends to get noisy in the winter. It’s old.” _Shut up before he_ does _get suspicious._

With a non-committal ‘mm’, the government agent brushed past the doctor and headed towards the kitchen. Just as his brain was celebrating the younger man swallowing that excuse, the other officer emerge from the toilet with an unpleasant expression on his face.

 “Anderson,” he growled, “have you finished yet?”

“I’ve just started the kitchen…”

“Leave that. Come here.”

John nearly stumbled as the realisation of what and how the older officer was saying slammed into him. _The extra toiletries. Shit. They must have discovered them._ Carefully keeping his face blank, he turned on one heel and headed into the kitchen, turning the hot water on almost full blast and holding his finger under the stream until it started to scald him. Turning the tap off, he put the plug in and squirted some liquid into the sink bottom.

“What are you doing?”

“Starting to wash up.”

Anderson’s eyes narrowed some more. “I thought you lived alone,”

“I do. Doesn’t mean I don’t want to cultivate various species of mould on everything I own,” John replied, voice a little too hard. He was too tense, he knew; he _had_ to relax. He turned back to the sink and filled it more than was necessary, taking his time in washing each individual item. He allowed a small smirk to cross his face as he heard the younger officer being reprimanded for his attitude towards the doctor.

“Or hide evidence of another person?” he heard the young man mutter, twitching his head towards the remark.

John counted the seconds between the last morpheme of the remark and the moment he stopped hearing the officer’s footsteps as they headed towards his bedroom.

~x~

Sherlock froze, waiting. If he was a lesser person, he might have expected the panel to be ripped open, revealing blinding artificial light and a face that belonged to the FCD. He might have expected to be hauled out and taken away, perhaps interrogated (no doubt using clandestine means, since he was an Avanzian on top of being an illegal immigrant). After all that, he might have expected to be either shot in the head and dumped in whatever was most convenient for the _fine_ FCD officers or deported to Avanzia to burn with everyone else as the chemical weapons hit the city.

But he was not inclined to such thinking and thus did not feel that fear as a consequence. Nonetheless, he moved slowly until his bare feet were wedged in the right angles connecting the back of the wardrobe with the bottom, body taut and aching with the tension permeating his muscles. He clung on to the faintly-textured sides with his fingertips, body shaking with the effort to keep completely still as he heard someone entering the room.

_Steps are too heavy and quick to be John – person is wearing boots – has to keep fit because his job requires it – late thirties –_

He heard and felt the wardrobe doors open, involuntarily squeezing his eyes shut. His legs started shaking from the pressure of having most of his weight supported on it. He didn’t dare to move in case even raising a finger two millimetres unpicked everything he’d worked hard to keep together.

 _You and John_ , a tiny voice somewhere in his brain interjected.

The young man mentally shook his head, waiting for the man on the other side of the panel to leave. Currently, as far as Sherlock could tell, he was rummaging around in the wardrobe, scraping against the back panel every so often. Sherlock flinched minutely, as if the FCD officer’s fingers were bumping against his skin rather than an old, thick piece of wood.

He suddenly heard a muffled “Huh,” of discovery, the shuffling stopping. His heart pounded in his chest – _this is it, they’ve found the flaw in the wood – I’m going to be taken in – interrogated – deported – shot –_

A yell from somewhere else in the apartment distracted the man on the other side of the wood, followed by more footsteps and a question of some sort.

“Anderson, there’s clearly nothing here. The young woman was wrong. Let’s go.”

Sherlock frowned, relaxing cell by cell as the men bid their goodbyes and left the flat. A few minutes of silence passed before lighter steps ( _John’s_ – _right leg slightly heavier_ – _ghost of a limp that didn’t exist_ ) crossed the flat and into the room and opened the wardrobe, fingernails scrabbling against the back of the furniture piece and finding the flaw in the wood.

The panel was almost ripped open and artificial light blinded Sherlock.

“Are you okay?”

 _John._ Squinting, Sherlock nodded, finally allowing his body to relax. His hand was grabbed and he was pulled out by the former soldier.

Seeing the dust and dirt smothering the Avanzian, John resisted the urge to brush the former off and grab a flannel to clean off the latter. Sherlock did this by himself anyway, glancing down and dusting himself off, stretching his limbs.

“That was too close,” John said, half to himself. “And you…” He trailed off, sentence disintegrating on its launch pad. _I can’t keep stuffing you in a wardrobe week after week. It’s not fair on you._

Sherlock rubbed his arms, not knowing what to say. He fought to keep his breathing level ( _this is it – the hospitality is over – he’s going to kick me back out on the street_ ), shivering slightly in the cold of the flat.

“But I can’t just boot you out, either,” John countered, half to himself.

The younger man relaxed minutely.

“Good God,” the doctor breathed softly, drumming his fingertips against the wool of his jumper. “What am I going to do with you?”

_You could get my clothes and new things out the wardrobe where you tossed them in with me so casually._

As if he’d read his mind, John poked his head back into the false back of the furniture piece and brought out the plastic bags, bursting with unopened, unworn things. He closed the compartment again, sliding his clothes back in front of it.

“Let me know if they fit you or not, okay?” he asked, voice weary. “I’ll just be out here.”

Sherlock watched as the doctor left him, an unpleasant feeling in his gut (which in itself was unpleasant), wondering if John was aware of the streaks of dust in his hair and on his jumper.


	19. Chapter Eighteen

Anderson shut the door of Doctor Watson’s flat with force after he and the other FCD officer left, although not enough for his superior to stop and call him out on it. This was the third false alarm he had investigated this week. This one particularly stung as he had hoped it would not be a false alarm, especially after seeing the photographs. Routine searches were physically and psychologically exhausting. As a rule, officers also had to give the impression that they were competent; authoritative; that they knew what they were doing, even when they didn’t. Given the dwindling Caderan population, the FCD could no longer afford to be selective about whom they hired, so they wound up hiring almost anyone off the street.

The subsequent interrogations were worse. The officers could not afford to feel even a sliver of compassion and empathy. Almost half of them oversaw five interrogations before leaving. Most of that half quit after their first. Anderson had been there for two years, and had survived through his ability to detach his humanity from his perspective of those they were hunting for.

The whole department, contrary to their reputation, had good management but poor staffing. He and other officers didn’t return home from searches simultaneously exhausted and so tense that they couldn’t sleep.

“So are you going to be the one to tell the young woman she was wrong?” the other, older officer asked, stopping abruptly in his tracks.

Anderson practically screeched to a halt in the long corridor, narrowly avoiding smacking into his superior. “Me? Why?”

“‘Cause I’ve got another search to conduct.”

“So I get to be the one to tell her that her boyfriend isn’t concealing any Avanzians despite evidence to the contrary?”

Something shifted in the air between them. The older officer stared at him. “What did you just say?”

_Shit. Shouldn’t have used that word._ “I said…or rather, implied…that Doctor Watson and her are – ”

“She and Doctor Watson,”

“What?”

A gruff sigh emerged from the other man’s mouth. “Never mind. What about them? They’re dating?”

“Yes.”

His superior stared at him for what felt like a long time. Anderson felt the beats of silence that passed between them in the winter air. “How do you know this, Officer?”

“I’ve seen them,” the younger man blurted. Conscious of how his voice was bouncing off the concrete walls, he dropped its level. “When I was…” _Don’t mention Sally. Don’t mention Sally._ “Out. I’ve seen them together in restaurants quite a few times.”

The older officer’s eyes narrowed. “Were you _stalking_ them, Officer?”

“No, no, not at all!” Anderson stammered. “You know what Cadera’s like. Small world. Even smaller since the war started,” he added as an afterthought.

The older man shrugged in a very offhand way. _He’s seen it all, of course he wouldn’t be bothered by it,_ Anderson realised. _Families and friends torn apart. Neighbour on neighbour, sibling on sibling, spouse on spouse, parents, children, partners. This is nothing new to him._

“Fine. I’ll tell her,” Anderson said, voice not devoid of resignation. He tried to keep his face as neutral as possible. _At least_ , he thought, _I’ll get to go home early tonight. No interrogations to participate in._ He thought about calling Sally to see if she wanted come over once she finished her shift.

“Onward,”

Anderson allowed a flicker of a smile to cross his face as he followed the senior officer back to the car they’d arrived in.

~x~

Sherlock rolled his shoulders and shook his arms, enjoying the feel of the new material on his skin. Every item of clothing fit him almost too well, even if they weren’t clothes he would normally pick out for himself. Or rather, clothes Mycroft would have picked out for him, insisting that if he didn’t _eat_ , could he at least get dressed because people are coming in and out the house on a regular basis and Sherlock’s back end was the _last_ thing high Avanzian society needed to see.

The clothes John had bought were very different to Avanzian clothes, too – they were thicker, with darker colours and covered more, too. True, Sherlock’s Belstaff had come from Cadera, but he’d never given thought to the differences until recently. He crumpled up the plastic bag from whence the clothes had came when he felt a weight. _Something I’ve missed? Impossible._

There was a knock on the bedroom door before it opened, albeit with some difficulty. Pushing the door open with his elbow, John backed into the room carefully, two mugs of tea ( _chai_ , Sherlock realised once the scent hit his nostrils) in his hands.

“Alright?” he asked as he set them down.

Sherlock could only nod, putting the bag down on the bed and watching with surprise as the doctor hissed a curse word and rushed to the window, pulling the curtains shut. Moving closer to the bedside table, he took his mug and sipped from it, the flavoured liquid burning his tongue as he did so, before taking the bag back in his hands.

“Yeah, there’s something else in there,” John clarified, motioning for Sherlock to continue. “Don’t worry,” he added, chuckling, “it won’t bite.”

The young man pulled out a folded-up soft… _thing_ with what looked like plaits of material dangling from it. Frowning, he unfolded it, running his fingers along the soft texture.

“What is it?” he asked, holding it out to John with a questioning look on his face. _This is certainly not something I’ve ever seen in Avanzia._

“It’s a hat.” When the questioning look continued, so did John. “Because…you know. Your hair. It’s Avanzian hair…you’ll be recognised immediately.”

Sherlock put his hands to his hair upon hearing the noun, John’s words echoing in his mind. _Your hair…Avanzian hair._

John nodded encouragingly, misunderstanding Sherlock’s gesture. “Yeah. That.”

Seemingly satisfied, the young man opened the hat, sliding his hands along the rim until they were resting against the flaps the plaits were apparently sewn onto. Raising his arms, he lowered the hat onto his head, pulling it down as far as it would go. Almost instantly, John was in front of him, pushing the last errant curls and ends under the hat. It was a little too big for the Avanzian, and it obstructed his sight and hearing far too much for his liking. However, it _was_ warm.

“Just remember to put it on when you want to leave the flat, alright?”

Sherlock said nothing, gingerly touching the woollen hat, its weight alien to him. Avanzian winters were such that he never needed anything like this. He pulled it off with a snort, shaking his head. _I’m not wearing that._

“You’ll get used to it, I promise,” John said, as if sensing Sherlock’s disdain and doubts.

The young man gave him a look of derision.

“It’s not permanent, anyway.” John’s voice betrayed the weariness his body language didn’t. “Just until the winter is over.”

“War,” Sherlock interjected.

The older man frowned. “What?”

_You mean until the war is over. Or your conscience fades enough to kick me out_ , Sherlock thought. “Not winter over. War over.”

A long silence passed between them whilst John tried to work out what Sherlock was trying to convey, broken only by stutters of “Wha– ” and intakes of breath as if he was about to speak. Much to Sherlock’s relief, he eventually managed a complete sentence.

“Did I mean, ‘until the war is over’?”

The young man nodded. John tried to formulate a response, but it died in his throat as he realised how weak it was. The Avanzian was right, loathe as he was to admit it.

“It’s either wear the hat or be found. We both know what that would mean.” _God knows I’ve said it enough._ He picked up the plastic bag Sherlock had carelessly dumped on the floor. “There are some hangers in one of the other bags. You can put your clothes on them and in the wardrobe when you’ve finished.”

Without another word, John left, leaving Sherlock to his own devices. Sometimes, the twenty-six-year old acted more like a fifteen-year old and it frustrated John no end. Other times, he wished he hadn’t rescued the man at all; just left him to Waters and a conscientious member of the public with a phone.

But when he did think that, he immediately felt bad for doing so.

Not that he could reveal that to the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I remind you that this story will be slow. Not sure yet how many chapters it'll end up being - could be 30, could be 40.
> 
> [This is the style of hat in question](http://www.happyhats.co.uk/acatalog/homepage-productimage.jpg).
> 
> I'm also pretty sure that the hits and subs I'm getting on here are encouraging me to update more often, and comments are nice too. Once again, thanks for sticking with it. :)


	20. Chapter Nineteen

It wasn’t that the search had left sour feelings eating away at the bottom of John’s stomach which meant that he began working longer hours at the hospital, taking shifts when others could not work them. It wasn’t the fallout from the search that caused the tension created by it to thicken and settle over the flat like clouds on the verge of raining. It was _definitely_ not responsible for the diminishment in frequency of Caderan lessons; even when they were conducted, it was with tired enthusiasm.

At least, that was what the army doctor would say if he was asked; if anyone was privy to what went on within the walls of the flat. As he pulled his coat on, on edge after the fourth night in a row of broken sleep, he noticed a burn mark on the counter surface. Although the counter in question was an ugly mixture of beige, dark green and a shade of red the colour of wine, the mark could not be missed.

John felt the anger in him roil up again and he shook his coat, straightening out the collar, as he heard the younger man approaching.

“Morning,” he said stiffly, moving his empty mug to the sink, the air seeming to tighten between them. Sherlock tilted his head to one side, sensing the tension but unsure why the older man was angry with him. His eyes unconsciously travelled to the kitchen counter, where the burn mark from last night’s improper care of the apparatus he’d used was still very much apparent.

_Oh. That._

“Morning,” he eventually replied, an unpleasant, liquid-like feeling in his stomach. Hunger? No. He hadn’t eaten in a while, but his body was used to that. He retreated into his mind palace, searching for other potential symptoms. _No head or body aches, no fever, no fatigue._ Not an illness, but he was unsure as to what it actually was.

Before he could reach a conclusion, John left the flat, taking half of the tension with him. It was then Sherlock decided he would get out of the flat. After all, there was a dead body on the news a few nights ago that he had to investigate.

~x~

Much later, with the map of Cadera he’d seen in an atlas on John’s bookshelf open in his mind, Sherlock looked around, attempting to ignore the way the woollen hat was making his head itch and adding a furred edge to his vision. He knew the body was around here _somewhere_ – he was sure of it –

Just then, he stopped, staring. This was the spot ( _I’m sure of it_ , he thought), but there was no body. Ensuring that nobody else was present to see him, he moved closer, crouching down to peer at the scene before him.

 _Fibres on debris – dark, victim was wearing dark clothing – trails left in the dust – victim’s body was dragged down the street – dead two days before moved – male, twenties – Riuscitan descent on father’s side_.

He straightened up, fixing his eyes on the trail leading from the collection of dust and debris. Taking care not to disturb it, he followed it until it ended, the ends scattered in almost every other direction.

Not letting it dishearten him, Sherlock pulled the woolly hat up, letting his eyes rove over the surrounding ground. Sure enough, he saw bootprints, clear – to him – as day, leading into the street on the left branch of the crossroads. Stepping over them, he followed them down the street as if walking with a ghost, turning right not long after.

“Careless,” he muttered to himself as he continued to follow the trail down numerous roads and narrow alleys. “So careless to leave a trail.”

Soon, the trail stopped at two almost-perfectly aligned, adjacent footsteps outside an innocuous door. Rounding them, the young man tried the door handle. Unlocked, though the lock was whole and only a couple of years old ( _rarely used – a display of arrogance – whoever ventures here is sure he’s the only one that comes here – only the third ‘owner’  of this place_ ).

Pushing it all the way down, looking behind and around him to ensure that nobody was watching, he pushed the door open and squeezed himself in, shutting it behind him.

~x~

John was returning to his office after his lunch break when his arm caught with that of another person’s, causing them to drop the folder they were holding.

“Sorry! No, let me get that,” John almost-shouted, quickly retrieving the folder from the ground. When he straightened up, he looked at the face of the folder’s owner, brow crinkling in surprise. “ _Mary?_ I thought you weren’t working today,”

“I got called in for someone else today,” the young woman replied, not fully looking at him.

“Ah? What time do you finish?”

“Not til five.”

John nodded. “Right.”

Mary smiled weakly. “Are you alright?”

“Me? Yeah, I’m fine.”

She nodded at his leg. “You don’t have your cane today,”

“Hmm?” John followed her gaze briefly. “Oh, yeah. It hasn’t been so bad recently. Haven’t needed it.”

Mary smiled, despite the worm of suspicion in her gut. “Good, I’m glad.”

The older man handed the folder to his girlfriend. “Are you free tonight?”

“No, I’m not.” She contorted her face into what she hoped was regret. “Why?”

“Just wondering if you wanted to go out for dinner. No worries, though.” John attempted a nonchalant shrug, masking his disappointment. “Have you been sleeping alright?”

 _Safe and bloody sound._ “Not recently. No. And it’s nothing new that’s come up,” she added, pre-empting her boyfriend, “I just have a lot on my mind. That’s all.”

“Okay. Well, if you’re sure.”

“Yes, I’m sure. See you later.” Mary felt her heart fall to her stomach at John’s concern. Taking the folder, she continued her journey, only mildly relieved that John had swallowed her lie about the evening.

“See you later,” John echoed faintly, watching Mary walk off. Something about the conversation ( _something about her_ ) didn’t seem completely right to him, but he put it down to her being tired, as she had stated, and returned to his office, attempting to steer his mind onto the afternoon appointments.


	21. Chapter Twenty

The stench hit Sherlock as soon as he entered the dark space. It was a smell he was all too familiar with, and he pulled the collar of his jumper up to cover his nose and mouth on reflex. An unpleasant buzzing sound reached his ears, seeming to come from everywhere. The chill he’d felt outside was worse inside, causing him to zip up his coat up to his collarbones.

Splaying one hand against the wall, he felt around for a light switch, ignoring the slimy coating on the walls that made his stomach roil. When he found none, he drew out the illicitly-obtained lighter from his coat pocket and flipped it open, razzing the small wheel to light it.

To his surprise, the room was completely empty. Dusty, yes, its only inhabitants the streaks of dark mould that covered the walls and ceiling, but overall it contained absolutely nothing he might pinpoint as the source of the rank smell filling his nostrils.

Crossing the floorboards carefully, testing his weight before taking each step forward, he moved towards the centre of the room, eyes scanning wherever the lighter lit for anything new; anything useful. Before long, instead of creaks coming from the floor, Sherlock heard a hollow _thunk_ as his left foot landed. He stopped and looked down, toeing the floor. There were no creaks, just a slightly hollow scraping. Bending down, he waved the lighter above the floor until he found the thin, straight cracks he was looking for that formed a rectangle of which the cracks dipped into a brief hollow at the centre of one of the sides. With his free hand, he wedged his fingertips into the hollow, lifting them and what looked like a trapdoor in the process, the light thrown onto a flight of stairs as the door slammed open.

He smiled, despite the stench growing even stronger with his discovery. _Click._ Straightening up, he held the lighter in front of him and his breath in his lungs, pulling his jumper back over his nose and mouth and descending into the foul darkness.

The stairs seemed to go on forever and the Avanzian had to grip onto the side railing to ensure he didn’t fall. He also had to let out the breath he was holding, since the stench didn’t seem to want to relent, intensified by the cold of whatever he was going into.

Something gleamed in the small light in his hand and the Avanzian followed the gleam up. It was a chain of some sort. Reaching up, he closed his hand around the chain and pulled, curiosity consuming calculations as to what would follow. Suddenly, the room was flooded with light, fully exposing the extent of the mould on the walls as well as the source of the buzzing noise and the rank smell. Sherlock sucked in a quick breath and held it, keeping completely still as his eyes took in the clouds of flies and larvae making their homes on the corpses – in various states of decay – in the room. Although some had been down here for weeks, the basement was cold enough that their decay was slowed by a significant amount.

This, in turn, meant that the sole living human in the entire basement had enough visual data to recognise all of them as the victims of the Tourist Killer.

~x~

John left the clinic just as night-time made itself comfortable, buttoning up his coat and walking briskly through the still, frosty air. There were no residential area bombings recorded today, which was good news for the hospital and the adjacent clinic. In fact, the day had bordered perilously on dull and had dragged, especially after bumping into Mary after lunch.

Despite his attempts to the contrary, his girlfriend’s behavior gnawed away at the bottom of his stomach. He had tried to halt its tracks with the excuse of her being overworked and tired, as they all currently were. That had only slowed its progress rather than stopped it altogether. He resolved to ask about it next time he saw her, which with any luck would be this weekend.

He was so deep in thought about Mary that he hadn’t noticed that he’d reached his flat until he collided with the front door, banging his nose in the process. Rubbing it, he fumbled for the key, hands shaking with the cold as he unlocked the door, hoping he’d remembered to set the heating that morning. A rush of lukewarm air from the flat confirmed he had as he stepped in, whirled around and slammed the door before any more could escape.

The flat was worryingly silent. Slipping his shoes off, the former army doctor briefly checked each room, knocking on the bathroom door just in case. No response from any of the rooms.

“Sherlock?” he called out, softly. “It’s me.”

He waited for the soft padding of bare feet around a corner, with a scornful facial (rather than verbal) expression of _Of_ course _it’s you, you’re the only other person with a key to this flat._ When that didn’t happen, he phoned for a takeaway and sat down in front of his laptop, checking his email while he waited.

~x~

In the basement, Sherlock made his way through the corpses, noting that there were also Rubarians, Idiocrans and corpses of other nationalities amongst the morbid rows. He stopped at some of them, bending to inspect them closely. _Victims of different nationalities – died in the same week – same M.O. –_

A noise from above alerted him and he whipped his head around to its source. Voices and footsteps reached his ears, stopping just by the basement door –

“Hey, why’s _this_ open?”

Carefully, the young man picked his way through the corpses, occasionally accidentally nudging them, various fluids leaking on his shoes as a consequence.  Taking large strides, he made it to the dark space beneath the stairs just as the voices and footsteps began to descend.

“How many d’you think the boss-man’s going to order?”

“‘Til all the ones who owe him money are dead. Or until he runs out of that poison. Whichever comes first.”

Sherlock breathed in slowly, shivering with the cold and pressing himself in the shadows against the half-rotting wood of the stairs. _Caderan – male – in their thirties – overweight – unmarried – left one is gay –right one’s half-Rubarian –_

He was interrupted by a grunt and a thud as one of the pair slung the fresh corpse he was carrying into a space.

“Doesn’t seem much when you put it into a space like this, dun’ it?”

“Nah.” The man carrying the corpse straightened up. “But the boss will probably need to get to another country soon. Even if this one’s in the middle of war people are still gonna get suspicious of heart attacks in the otherwise healthy,”

“Yeah…”

The two left, the sound of the slamming trapdoor ricocheting around the large space. Sherlock waited until he was sure they had gone before leaving, having collected all the information he required, with an additional bonus from overhearing the words of the goons who had dumped the corpse.

Before he left, he gave the new arrival a once-over, noticing anything that could have provided him with a name or address was missing. He hated not having Lestrade or any of the facilities of the APD at hand. _Caderan – female – twenties – divorced – no children – a dog and a cat – boyfriend – keen traveller – hair recently dyed_.

But none of the signs that had connected her with the other corpses. No track marks save for the one that had administered the poison, healthy weight, clear complexion, all teeth clean and intact. Sherlock wondered what had made her a particular target when she wasn’t a drug addict, unlike the others.

Straightening up, he made his way up the precarious stairs and pushed the unlocked trapdoor open ( _ah, the mistakes of arrogance_ ), running back to John’s flat as quickly as possible. This venture had confirmed what he already knew – that there was more than one killer and they were working not only internationally, but on the orders of someone else.

“How terrifically clichéd,” he muttered to himself in Avanzian, fishing the key out of his pocket and pushing it into the lock, twisting the door open, the excitement of new information thrumming through his veins regardless of the mundanity of the motive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates will now be every Wednesday and Sunday. Hooray for regularity!


	22. Chapter Twenty-One

John heard the door open and got up, striding to the hallway to see who it was. When he saw Sherlock standing in the doorway, he was surprised – he didn’t remember giving the Avanzian a key. The tension in him immediately dissipated. His mouth was full of words, strings of sentences absorbing all the moisture in his mouth. _I’m sorry for being so abrupt with you over the last few days. It’s not your fault. It’s mine._

“There you are,” was what he settled with saying instead. “Where have you been?”

“Out,” the young man replied, throwing his coat and hat over one of the vacant hooks and shaking his curls out from where the hat had compressed them.

“Out where?”

Sherlock looked sharply at the doctor. “In Cadera. I did not…” _What’s the damn verb?_ “I did not meet…anyone.”

John frowned at him in confusion, tone cautious and low. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” Sherlock withdrew his hands as he searched his mind palace, trying to find the right words. “I did not meet anyone who…would hurt.”

“You didn’t meet anyone who would hurt you?” John finished.

“Yes. Exactly.” Sherlock dug into the pockets of his coat and brought out some of the pieces from the chemistry set, shoving them in his pocket before John had a chance to look closer.

Whilst the older man didn’t say anything about them, he was secretly pleased the Avanzian was using it. The pieces in question looked like they were containing something too.

“You are pleased I am using what you brought for to me,” the young man stated in a slightly stilted tone without raising his head.

“Bought for me,” John automatically corrected, initially noticing the error by the slightly trilled ‘r’. “Yes. I am.” _Also, I’m going to teach you about linguistic contractions._ “Sherlock…”

The Avanzian looked up, eyes almost burning into John.

“I was wondering.” John swallowed, trying to prevent the laser stare from cutting into his words. “What did you do in Avanzia? I mean…did you have a job?”

Sherlock was silent for a few minutes as he processed the question. “Yes, I did.”

John licked his lips unconsciously. “What was it? If you don’t mind me asking, that is.”

Sherlock shook his head. _Why would I mind?_ “I worked with the police. When they were…” He fell silent for a moment.

“When they were…short of staff?” John guessed. “Stuck on a murder?” A shot in the dark that he had an inward chuckle at, but it was worth a try.

“Stuck?” Sherlock queried.

John gesticulated briefly. “When they can’t do any more and need help.”

“Yes. I helped them when they were stuck on a murder.”

The army doctor folded his arms, intrigued. “How?”

The young man moved quickly to the living room, where the rest of his chemistry set was scattered all over the floor, and put the two pieces he’d taken with him to the basement with the rest. “I concluded it,”

“You’d _solve_ murders?” John was astonished. His mind flashed back to the night he’d rescued Sherlock, to the first words he’d spoken to the army doctor, bent double, bruised and bleeding from the welcome he’d received – _Avanzia or…Idiocra?_

“Yes.” The unspoken ‘of _course_ ’ was weaved into the young man’s tone.

“Just you? By yourself?”

Sherlock nodded again.

“How would you do that, then? Was it the same method you used when you asked about my service?”

 “That was…how I would start.”

John nodded. “How did you know, anyway? About my time in Avanzia,”

Sherlock pulled up his sleeve, exposing his slender wrists. “Your hands,” he said simply, laying a fingertip on the back of his hand and his wrist. “How you hold yourself. How you walk.”

John pulled back his own sleeve. To his eyes, the tan he’d gained whilst in Avanzia had almost faded. _I’ve been eight months out of there. How did you pick that up?_

Sherlock watched John as the Caderan stared at his own wrist, heart like a hummingbird in his chest. “You cannot see it. The colour on your hands.”

“But _you_ can,” John breathed, pulling his sleeve back up. “That’s amazing.”

The young man ducked his head away so John couldn’t see his face. _Did he just say what I think he said?_  Thankfully for him, someone chose that moment to knock three times on the door. _0.75 seconds per knock – even spaces – hesitant, as if unwilling to disturb –_

“The delivery man,” he said almost immediately.

John went to answer it without a word. It was only when he disappeared that Sherlock allowed himself a smile, a genuine one, and returned to his chemistry pieces. When the older man returned, although he hadn’t asked if the younger wanted any food, he split the takeaway onto two plates and insisted that he ate.

“Did you mean it?” Sherlock later asked whilst they were eating.

John looked up from his plate. “Mean what?”

“What you have said. That what I can do is amazing.” The young man fought to keep the tremor out of his voice.

The older man nodded almost instantly. “Yeah, of course I did. Why, do people not say that?”

Sherlock gave a half-smile at that, shaking his head. “They do not,”

“What do they usually say?”

The young man said something in Avanzian.

“What’s that when it’s in Cadera?” John chuckled, enjoying the way the brief phrase had sounded in the air.

“There is no direct Caderan to it,” Sherlock said, haltingly.

“You mean there’s no direct translation for it,” John said gently.

The young man nodded tersely, seeming almost offended. “There is no direct translation. But I believe the closest to say is, ‘piss off’.”

John couldn’t help but smile at that. For a moment, the Avanzian’s face seemed to relax minutely from its usual mask of composed indifference and he smiled again. The air was no longer thick with tension, but warm and seemed almost to crackle pleasantly, like a fire in a home welcoming its owners back from a spell in the cold.

~x~

“Sir?”

 “Anthea?”

“Apologies for the interruption. I just came to tell you that Dr. Watson’s home and IP address was removed from the database and the Grade Two surveillance plans have gone through,”

“Thank you. Could the removal be traced back?”

“The trail is being wiped as you speak, though I was told that all traces would be completely eradicated from the system,”

Mycroft exhaled minutely, almost unnoticeably. “Excellent. Thank you.”

Anthea gave a single nod before turning on her heel and exiting the room, leaving Mycroft alone. Meanwhile, he turned his attention back to the CCTV footage caught that day, part of which showed Sherlock entering a seemingly abandoned house, shutting the door behind him. A case. Of all things, the young man had found a _case_ to work on. Mycroft knew about the bodies.

Here was confirmation that Sherlock knew, too.

“Oh, little brother,” Mycroft muttered to himself in Avanzian, “when will you _learn_?”


	23. Chapter Twenty-Two

A few days later, John was on his way to the clinic for his usual morning shift when he heard a dull _boom_ in its direction and felt the ground shake beneath his feet. The lack of bombings in Cadera recently had meant he’d grown used to the silence and stable ground. Stomach dropping, he ran the rest of the route, praying to a deity he didn’t believe in that the medical buildings hadn’t been touched ( _please let nobody be hurt, please let nobody be hurt_ ) –

He almost screeched to a halt as he stopped a few metres away from the clinic and hospital, which had a large hole in it, like a large bite taken out of a chocolate bar. He smelt the smoke and burning and sprinted forward without thinking, joining the increasingly-growing group of people in front of the joined buildings.

A cry of “John!” came from someone he recognised as a surgeon he’d worked with in the past. “I’m glad you’re safe,”

“Yeah, I’m fine, what about everyone else? Did they get out in time?”

“In the clinic, yeah.”

John felt his stomach clench. “What about the hospital?”

“They started to get people out, but…Don’t even think about going in there. It’s too unstable. Besides, the fire department are working on it,”

John looked to his left, where the fire department were pulling people out. He also saw a few doctors treating those who had been pulled out, when they needed to. _It’s too unstable._ John’s mind flashed back to Sherlock, cooped up at the flat.

_Good thing I can do unstable conditions._

Without another word, he ducked into the clinic, sprinting to his office, war-honed instincts shaking off the dust and directing his actions. He found the First Aid kit and opened it, searching in the cupboards for the supplies in which the small box was lacking and shoving them in as quickly as he could before hurrying back out again.

“What are you do – ”

“I’m not going in!” John cut in, heading in the direction of the voice that called his name (“Over here!”) and the patient the source of the voice was near. He was there for what would have been a large portion of his shift, shivering in the bitter cold as the dust cleared and he treated those who needed it, sterilising and putting plasters and bandages over their wounds. Some of the wounds even required stitches. None of them were serious enough to be fatal. Whilst he offered them a few comforting words, he tried not to look into their eyes; tried not to see the fear and uncertainty in them for fear they would see similar emotions in his.

~x~

Sherlock jumped awake, shivering. Despite the central heating, the temperature had dropped even further overnight, despite falling asleep in layers of clothing (upon John’s insistence, naturally). He shook himself until the tiredness dissipated. Having pondered over the evidence he’d gathered from the basement the previous night, he had fallen asleep on the sofa at three and it was now nine. He hadn’t slept this much in months and he didn’t like it. It made him feel drowsy, lethargic. Incredibly inconvenient for work.

He spotted John’s laptop on the table, carelessly left there from the previous day. Padding over to it, he lifted the lid and briefly scanned the keyboard ( _used yesterday at 4pm – thirty minutes_ ). Sitting down, he pressed the power button and waited for it to load, looking at the keyboard again. It was the first time he’d used a computer with a Caderan layout and even though he knew the alphabet well, he still had to give it another look. Once the machine loaded onto a login screen with two users, Sherlock knew, in case something went wrong with the main one. If there was one thing Sherlock had learned about Caderans in his brief time in the country, it was that they were incredibly paranoid.

Exhaling through his nose, he tried out one potential password, pressing Enter and waiting.

A white ‘X’ in a red circle showed. _The username or password is incorrect._ It displayed a password hint.

Sherlock smirked to himself as the hint correlated with what would have been his second guess at John’s password. Clicking on the white bar, he typed the phrase in carefully, pressing Enter once more.

 _Welcome_.

The young man sat back, a smirk on his face. _You really ought to pick better passwords, John._

~x~

The evacuated patients had no sooner been treated and moved to more secure locations when another bomb hit the hospital and clinic, almost obliterating the two completely. Fortunately, by that point, the buildings had been almost completely evacuated. Any dead bodies that were discovered were later found to have been killed when the first bomb hit, unable to be rescued by the emergency services, asphyxiated by the dust. Once they were identified, their families were informed, the bodies then taken to the local cemetery.

The destruction also meant that everyone who survived lost their jobs, although there were plans being made to retrieve any equipment that was still usable from the wreckage and divide it up between the remaining medical staff. The medical staff would continue to see patients but at their own homes. The issue of those that required major surgery had yet to be resolved. For now, it was sorted.

After John saw his scheduled patients of the day (and after he lost count of the number of times he had to explain to people that the clinic and hospital had suffered a bombing), he left the abandoned house in which he was holding his consultations and made his way home, shivering against the cold of the night, hands deep in his pockets. His thoughts strayed to Sherlock, as they had done in an intermittent fashion throughout the day, wondering how the Avanzian was choosing to spend his day and if he needed to pick up any milk on the way home, since Sherlock kept using it without replacing it for the sake of ‘tests’. The doctor decided to grab a two pint carton on the way, just in case.

He let himself into the flat and shut the door behind him. “Sherlock?”

“Yes?” a deep, accented voice called back.

“Nothing. Just checking you were in.”

Footsteps sounded and the young man appeared round the corner, clutching a wad of paper, excitement radiating off him. “Look what I found.”

“What?” John strode up to the young man and peered at the papers closely. On the pages were photos, neatly aligned with corresponding personal information. The older man’s eyes zoomed to the bottom of the page where he saw the date. They were printed _today_. “Who are those people? How did you print all this out?”

“Case.” There was an excitement in the young man’s voice John hadn’t heard before. “Murdered. These people.”

“They’re all victims in a case?” John half-translated. “How many are there?”

“Fifty…” Sherlock counted on his fingers before holding up the required amount.

“Fifty-six? Are they all Caderan? Rubarian? Avanzian?”

Sherlock nodded. “And Idiocran. Uscitan. Regressi. More.”

John let out a low whistle. “And you think they were killed by the same person?”

“People,” Sherlock corrected, an electric undercurrent in his voice. “I don’t _think_. I _know._ I will show you,”

Before he could register what he was doing, John nodded in agreement. He hadn’t seen the young man so excited about something. Ever. “Alright, just let me…” He darted to the fridge, opening it and shoving the carton of milk in a spare place of the shelf. Turned out he _did_ need to buy more.

“More milk. Good,” was all Sherlock said as he yanked on his shoes and made for the door.

“Wait!” John almost yelled. Sherlock stopped, looking at the man in confusion. “ _Hat_ , remember?”

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock grabbed the woollen monstrosity from its hook, pulling it on his head. Once John had tucked the last remaining curls under, they were off, Sherlock racing ahead and John wishing he’d exercised more behind him.


	24. Chapter Twenty-Three

“Where are we _going?_ ” John practically yelled about ten minutes after the two had taken off from the flat.

“Basement,” Sherlock replied, not bothering to pause as he sprinted along streets, skidded around corners and eventually stopped in front of a door, opening it and darting inside before John had a chance to catch his breath back.

“Isn’t this breaking and entering?”

“If it was sealed, yes,”

“Locked, you mean,”

“Course,” the young man replied, seeming to suddenly fall to the floor, hands splayed across the untreated surface. John reached his side, realising that he was crouching with his thumbs tucked under some sort of groove in the floor. Seconds later, what looked like a trapdoor swung open, unleashing a smell akin to dead bodies from a dark, square hole and an unpleasant buzzing sound. Without another word, the Avanzian descended into the dark, the Caderan biting back a shout of _wait_ before following him down, vigilant for danger.

Sherlock found the chain and yanked on it, noticing the basement was colder than it had been when he was there two days ago. The light that soon flooded the room revealed the reason why – two new cooling units had recently been placed in the large room, slowing the state of decay of the bodies.

_They’re far too inconspicuous to be moved without notice. How did they get there without being followed or discovered?_

“What did you say?” John asked.

Sherlock turned to him. “I said it openly?”

“You did, albeit in Avanzian,”

“Oh.” Sherlock paused for a heartbeat, eyes sweeping the room as he tugged his scarf up against the smell. He noted no new bodies, though the ones already in the basement were now covered in masses of insects or bloated in decomposition. He turned back to John, voice muffled by the scarf. “The cold machines…they were not there when I was. I came here two days past.”

“And all the people in those…papers – ” John gestured to the wad of paper sticking out of Sherlock’s pocket “ – they’re all the people here?”

“Of course,”

“Christ,” John exclaimed softly, crouching down beside one of the bodies. “What did they all die of? Heart attacks?”

“No,” Sherlock shot back as his made his way towards one of the cooling units. “They were all injected with the poison of the _daboia russelii siamensis_. Snake venom. It clots the blood. It makes death look like heart attacks. The victims are all from different countries, so this cannot be work by one person. However, they all have needle marks,”

“Drugs,” John completed without a trace of questioning in his voice.

“ _Exactly_ ,” Sherlock hissed, excitement in his own voice. He crouched down on the other side of the body John was crouched by, turning a bare, pale white arm over. “Such as this one. Caderan, female, twenty-six years, boyfriend, three cats – two long-haired, one short – dead-end desk job. Two needle marks in her arm – one was to administer the poison. The other was to administer heroin,”

“She was an _addict?_ ” John was reeling from the information Sherlock had just rattled off. _Of course_ , he rationalised, _he could have gotten that information from…whatever website he used to print those profiles off._

“No. She had just started using.” Sherlock got to his feet. “Her mother died of cancer, her sister in a car accident. Both in two months.”

John also straightened up, flexing his stiff knees. “How do you _know_ all this?”

“It is my job to know all that other people don’t,” was the young man’s only reply. “You think I only know from the prints on the paper.”

It wasn’t a question. John nodded reluctantly. Without another word, the Avanzian handed the Caderan the carelessly-folded wad of paper. The doctor unfolded it and scanned the first few pages.

“These are just names and pictures,”

“There are no identifying documents with the bodies. They were taken when the victims were killed. I broke into the police database to identify them,”

“You _hacked_ into a database?” John hissed _._

The young man gave the older one an impudent look. “Of course. How else would I get the names and faces? Come on. The cold machines.”

“You mean cooling units!”

John almost pirouetted through the corpses as he followed the Avanzian to one of the large, battered-looking cooling units, which were really no more than the freezers that were used to hold ice-cream in shops. However, these ones had no sliding doors and certainly no ice-cream inside. Not that the Caderan _wanted_ any ice-cream.

“Four people moved this yesterday,” Sherlock announced. “All Caderans. They are not the first to touch it. It was used in Idiocra and Avanzia before. None of those who have touched it are in prime health,”

“Right.” John cracked a small smile at that, though he felt a little guilty for doing so at the same time. “So there are multiple people killing other people using snake venom and all the victims are drug users.”

“Yes, that _is_ what I just said.” There was a note of annoyance in the other man’s voice.

“Sorry.” John held his hands up in a placating manner. “So, what, there’s this whole international network run by one drug kingpin or something?”

“Yes. Come on, John. _Think_ of it. All the victims have average jobs – they are not particularly rich. They are all dead by mimics of heart attacks. They all use drugs.”

There was a pause, which seemed to lengthen horribly until something clicked in John’s head. “Money. They owed money. Then they were killed when they couldn’t pay up.”

“ _Yes!_ ” Sherlock nearly yelled, thrusting a hand out, almost slapping John with it. “You understand. _You_ get it. Good. Not stupid. Need to find any members of the families now,”

“Okay,” John replied automatically. “Let’s go then, yes?”

The two men picked their way through the collection of corpses, heading out of the building as quickly as they could, making sure to close every door behind them.

~x~

**_AIRCO refugee camp, Rubaria_ **

“How did it go?” Lestrade asked as Molly returned to their tent and sat down next to him, dumping her small bag on her bed.

“Fine. They told me I kept putting my adverbs in the wrong place, though. What about you?”

Lestrade shrugged, buying time to manufacture a brief lie. “Yeah. Fine.”

The former pathologist narrowed her eyes slightly. “Did you even go?”

“I did!” the older man insisted.

“What was your conversation subject, then?”

The former DI opened and shut his mouth, heat colouring his cheeks.

“You didn’t go.” Molly sighed through her nose. She looked like she was going to say something else, but she chose to shift further up her bed instead, taking out her diary.

Lestrade didn’t miss the way her shoulders and face fell, albeit minutely, and he wondered if this was because he didn’t attend the thrice-weekly class. Before he could say anything, she caught his expression.

“Don’t…worry about it,” she said, shivering slightly.

Lestrade’s tongue felt thick in his mouth. “Want me to…come over there?”

She looked at him, uncertainty flashing briefly in her eyes, before nodding. As the older man hauled himself over to the other side of the tent, the young woman inhaled sharply, as if in realisation, eyes filling with further emotion.

“What is it?”

“N-nothing. I just…” She swallowed. “I wonder, sometimes.”

“What?” Lestrade asked, drawing the blanket up and tucking it around her.

“I wonder if the people running the camp know about _insiemna_ ,” Molly finally managed to finish, albeit in a quiet tone.

Lestrade exhaled. In truth, amidst having to flee Avanzia and settling into the Rubarian camp, he’d completely forgotten about _insiemna_. He’d been divorced for half a decade, but for the first three days of _insiemna_ holiday, he’d been able to see his daughter. She spent the last three days with her mother, despite the war that was raging around them. The middle-aged man felt an ache of sadness at the thought of his daughter. He hadn’t seen her since the summer. He wondered if she was safe from the bombs; if she had managed to leave Avanzia, if the rumours of the chemical weapons were true.

“I’m sure they do, Molly,” he managed to say. “I mean, it _is_ an Avanzian- _and-_ Idiocran-Rubarian run camp after all. Maybe they’ll do something in the same week.” _I know it won’t be the same, but at least neither of us will be alone._

“Mm. Yeah.” Molly was quiet for a moment before she looked up at the former DI. “You’re thinking about Elina, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. I am.”

The young woman reached across, interlacing her fingers with Lestrade’s and squeezing it in sympathy. He threaded his free hand through her hair and they remained like that as they fell asleep several hours later.


	25. Chapter Twenty-Four

“Hey,”

“What?”

“Come and take a look at this.”

Curiosity piqued, Mary crossed the room and peered at the computer screen, which showed the names and addresses of all the known living Caderan citizens that remained in the city. She could see nothing out of the ordinary. “What?”

“Notice any names missing from the database?” the officer asked, annoyance underlining his voice. She had seen this particular officer around frequently since she’d joined – Anderson, his surname was. Nobody knew his first name, since he hadn’t supplied it upon joining the department. There was something off about the man; as if there was a part of him missing, and a cold atmosphere always surrounding him. She felt uneasy around him as a consequence.

Despite her discomfort, she peered closer at the names on the screen, which were listed alphabetically by surname. All in the Ws. Except for one –

“John?” she exclaimed without realising, feeling Anderson’s gaze narrow. Clearing her throat, she attempted to start again. “I mean. Doctor Watson. His name, home address and IP address are missing,”

“Yes. Exactly.” Anderson folded his arms, gaze not diminishing in its intensity. “There was a glitch in the database and some details went missing, Doctor Watson’s being one of them. You wouldn’t happen to know what caused that glitch, would you?”

Mary chuckled in incredulity. “Really? You think _I_ did it? I can just about work a computer well enough to access my email. Do you honestly think I’d be capable of hacking into a database even if I wanted to?”

“Ten years ago, I would have said no,” Anderson replied smoothly, “but now…who knows? People are getting smarter now. Not just kids. Adults. You could have had lessons of some kind.”

The air tightened between them. Mary angled herself to face him. “Where would I have gone for these…hacking lessons, exactly, without being spotted?”

Anderson shrugged, keeping his arms folded. “As I said, people are getting smarter. Everyone knows someone with a certain skill.”

“Of course,” Mary folded her arms. “Yours is keeping your affairs secret from your wife. How’s Sally, by the way?”

Fear flashed in the older man’s eyes.

“Imagine how the department would react if they found out about Sally. One of their officers screwing someone of Andari descent? Someone who should have been kicked out along with her father? They’d have a field day.”

“And if I could prove that _you_ were the one who removed Doctor Watson from the database?”

“I’d give you the money myself.” The young woman sighed. “Unfortunately, I’ve got a feeling that whomever _did_ do it would also be smart enough to erase as much of their trail as possible,”

“For someone who claimed to know very little about computer workings, you seem to know _that_ ,” Anderson countered, stepping into Mary’s personal space.

“Well, it’s common sense. If you commit a crime, you dispose of every trace of evidence, everything that could be led back to you.” Her eyes locked with his. “But I understand why you’d suspect me, given my connection with Doctor Watson. Self-preservation is important, but love is a much more vicious motivator. Correct?”

Before he had a chance to respond, Mary turned on her heel and walked away, leaving the question hanging in the air and Anderson with a prickling feeling at the base of his spine.

~x~

“You leaving him, then?”

That question again. It was one that had been present for the five weeks the affair was lasting. _Had_ lasted, rather, since Mary had made a decision earlier in the day.

Now, the doctor turned to the Rubarian in her bed, angry. “I can’t. You don’t understand.”

“Sure I do.” David sat up. “You’re working for the FCD. You – and everyone – suspect John’s hiding a curly. Best thing to do is leave him before he finds out you’re fucking his buddy because he’s too psychologically crippled to do it himself. Right?”

 _Something like that_ , a dark voice in the back of Mary’s mind said. She got up, pulling on a dressing gown and tying it at the waist, her back to the bed.

“You’re not denying it,” David pointed out.

“And you know the law on adulterers, whether legally married or not,”

“As well as you do, my dear. If they found out about us, we’d both be kicked out of our respective jobs.”

Mary folded her arms. “You seem calm about this.”

The Rubarian official shrugged. “I’m not gonna make like I love you, or anything. We know this…thing we have is purely physical. Wouldn’t be any skin off my nose if we were found out.” The older man got out of bed and dressed himself in the long stretch of silence that followed.

Taking a deep breath, Mary turned to face the government official. “Then you won’t be bothered when I say that I’m ending this.”

David halted in dressing himself, giving Mary a confounded look. “What? You are?”

The young woman shrugged. “Like you said, what we had _was_ purely physical. No skin off my nose if it was ended. No proof that we ever did anything, really, save for the condoms in the bin. No ammo as a result.”

David finished dressing himself and strode round the bed to the woman. “And you don’t feel bad about fucking me behind John’s back?”

“Don’t speak his name,” Mary muttered, guilt-triggered fury imbued in her voice. “In fact, just go. And don’t contact me again.”

“Why?” There was a sneer in the Rubarian’s words. “Want to go back to your impotent boyfriend and find out that he’s not only _hiding_ a curly, he’s fucking _it_ instead of _you_?”

David’s tirade was closed with a response of a furious slap from the doctor, who also stepped forward until the two were almost nose-to-nose, eyes alight with fury. A rustle of material and she was pointing at the door, arm tense and stiff.

“Door’s that way. I’d suggest you head in its direction.”

“Whatever you say.” David held his hands up. “Don’t come crying to me if it turns out John _is_ hiding or screwing an Avanzian. Or both.”

“Why would I come crying to you again when I can find someone who actually makes me scream in bed?” the young woman almost growled icily.

“Like John, you mean,” David replied dryly. “Also, for a doctor, you have a surprising lack of humanity. No wonder the FCD picked you up if you feel guiltier turning your boyfriend in than you do cheating on him.”

Grabbing his jacket, he swept out the door without looking back. Mary waited until she heard the front door slam before moving again, grabbing the soiled sheets off the bed and shoving them in the washing machine before diving into the shower. She didn’t know how long she was there, pressing the flannel so hard into her skin it left marks, exacerbated by the heat of the shower. Afterwards, as she dried herself off, the towel stung on her skin. She lifted it away from her body only to see flecks of blood on it.

“Shit,” she breathed, glancing down at herself. Sitting down heavily on the toilet seat, arms and legs bleeding from the superficial cuts she’d spotted on her body, she put her head in her hands. On one hand, David was gone – a problem less for her to worry about. On the other hand, she was still betraying her boyfriend, albeit through legal means.

Getting up again, she wrapped her hair in the blood-spotted towel and put her dressing gown back on, venturing downstairs towards the bottle of wine in the basement she’d originally intended for the weekend and deciding to attempt to drown her guilt that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this was a Mary-centric chapter. Apologies for that, guys. We'll get back to the main two next time (also, apologies for the late chapter, it was a combination of a busy weekend and writer's block). ~Mika


	26. Chapter Twenty-Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, Happy New Year! So sorry it's taken me so long to write and post this - combination of the festive period and writer's block. Thank frak for Season 3, eh? Don't worry, though, this story won't incorporate any major plot points from it (which is a roundabout way of saying: this is spoiler-free). Enjoy. Apologies again. ~Mika

Sherlock paced back and forth in the living room in front of a map of Cadera that was tacked to the wall. On it were thick black crosses indicating where the bodies were found, along with squiggles made with the same pen to indicate destroyed streets and red-topped pins for home addresses. John carried in one mug of coffee and one mug of tea a few minutes later. Sherlock didn’t respond to the older man’s presence, but he did stop pacing, closing his eyes and moving his hands around.

“Right,” John said quietly, half to himself, recognising the situation into which he’d walked. The young man was deep in his mind palace. John set the coffee down anyway and made his way over to the table, where a brand new journal and a pen awaited him. Even though he couldn’t keep an online blog, he’d finally caved and bought a journal some time ago. Now, he finally had the time and opportunity to write in it, which was what he spent the next hour and a half doing, completely absorbed in it until an urgent voice pulled him from his reverie.

“John,”

“What?”

“I’ve found it,”

“Found what?”

Sherlock’s eyes were glowing. “The _place_. I’ve found the place. Drug person. Come on.”

“You’ve found the drug dealer?” John’s tongue was thick in his mouth as he closed the journal, grabbing his coat. _How?_

“Yes.” Sherlock rammed the hat on his head, tucking the curls under its rim, and made towards the door. “Fast. Not much time,”

“Alright, alright.” John grabbed his keys and once more followed the young man out the door without knowing where he was going.

~x~

 “Here?” John hissed in dismay. “He’s here?”

“Yes,”

“But why here?”

“Oh, _John_.” John almost heard the eye-roll in Sherlock’s voice. “Look at this place. There are bags of rubbish here that have not been touched in six weeks. Nobody comes here. It is perfect. And yet too obvious at the same time.”

“Yeah, well,” John gesticulated around him, “the police haven’t been seen in months. Called up or recruited into other things,”

“The FCD,” Sherlock replied, the certainty in his voice rock-solid.

John merely nodded. The two men fell silent as they listened out for the footsteps of strangers, both of them pressed against the walls of the dark alleyway and practically against each other, body heat radiating through the layers of thick clothing. Even though Sherlock disliked wearing too many layers of clothing as it impeded him from aptly giving chase when needed, the Caderan chill necessitated it. Their hearts sounded in their ears, so loud in the dead air that John was sure they’d be overheard. Ignoring his own, Sherlock rotated his head slowly, listening out for a third pair of footsteps which, very soon, approached the pair, stopping short of them.

“Hello?” a voice called out, ravaged by long years of drug abuse. “Anyone there?”

_Cozzese accent – divorced – heroin and cocaine user – twenty years – former dog owner – occasionally feeds a stray cat which comes to him twice a day – former businessman – lost his job after the Caderan economic crash of 2300 – one son – now in Rubaria – teetotal –_

“ _Hello?_ ”

The Cozzese man sounded nervous. Sherlock moved off John, who instinctively moved after him, chasing the warmth.

“What are you _doing_?” the former army doctor hissed. “Do you _want_ us to be seen?”

“Yes, actually,” Sherlock replied _sotto voce_ before facing the Cozzese man, clearing his throat deliberately loudly.

“Wh-who’s there?”

“Just an interested new client,” Sherlock replied, and John was astonished to hear a believable Upper Caderan accent cloak the younger man’s words. “I’ve heard many good things about what you sell.”

There was a fumbling sound and a click as the Cozzese man turned on a torch. For a moment, John and Sherlock were blinded by the white beam. When it cleared, the first thing they saw was a disbelieving look on the Cozzese man’s face.

“You don’t look like th’ type. Neither of you,”

Sherlock smiled. “I didn’t know a singular type existed for your enterprise.”

The dealer shrugged. “Who’s this one?” he asked, pointing at John.

“My insurance,” Sherlock replied curtly. Automatically, John reached to his hip for a pistol that wasn’t there.

Eyes tracking John’s movements, the Cozzese man swallowed, visibly on edge as he realised what the posh stranger meant by ‘insurance’. “How much d’you want?”

“Three grams.”

A pause. “You’re not new to this, are you?”                          

“Not exactly.” Sherlock heaved a dramatic sigh. “Like I said, I have heard about you. Through some, ah, mutual acquaintances.”

“I see.” Without another word, the dealer handed over the small wrap of powder, taking the money from Sherlock in the process. The younger man flashed a fake smile before whirling back to John, raising his eyebrows and nodding.

Only when they were out of earshot did John round on the Avanzian.

“Your _insurance?!_ ”

“What else would you have wanted to be referred to as?” Sherlock replied, natural accent settling back into place. “My _doctor?_ Would that not have been too obvious? Of course, that man is not one of your regular patients. However, since the hospital was bombed and half of Cadera’s population has migrated, you have been making door-to-door visits to what’s left of the city. You would have been more recognisable to him as a result.”

“And referring to me as ‘your insurance’ makes me less recognisable? How?”

Sherlock half-smiled. “It is amazing how a change of noun can affect the perception of a person. Particularly if the said change of noun could also refer to the past deeds of that person.”

 _Psychology. Of course._ John thinned his lips in frustration, unable to win this argument as he followed Sherlock back to the flat in silence.

~x~

**_The next day_ **

Mary was woken up by her phone vibrating on the table. Sliding her arms under her, she raised herself from the bed, head swimming as she did so. _Knew I should have had water last night_ , she thought, turning slowly over to sit on her backside before reaching for her phone.

“‘Lo?” _Please don’t be Dave._

“Mary? Are you okay?”

 _Oh shit. John._ “Yeah, yeah. Just went out with some friends last night and drank too much. You know how it goes.”

“I do indeed.” John chuckled sympathetically and Mary felt something in her stomach harden. “Anyway, um…are you free tonight? If you are, want to come over for dinner?”

Mary’s mouth opened and closed like a goldfish. “Yes I am, so yes, I would,”

“Great. Come over at about eight?”

Mary nodded before remembering she was on the phone. “Yeah. Sounds great. I’ll try and remove this hangover of mine beforehand,”

“Good luck. Love you,”

Mary swallowed again. “Thanks. Love you too,” she replied, hanging up quickly and throwing the phone aside before running to the toilet and emptying her stomach of yellow bile and half-digested toast from the previous night. At that point, face in the toilet bowl, she made a decision. She’d gotten rid of David. That thread was tied up. However, it didn’t change the fact that she’d cheated on John for the sake of the physical and emotional intimacy that was lacking in their relationship.

She made a decision as she flushed the toilet and swilled mouthwash. Unlike all the other broken promises she had made to herself, she would fulfil this one.


	27. Chapter Twenty-Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Publishing this a little ahead of "His Last Vow", because I don't know how I'm gonna be after the episode. Enjoy ^_^
> 
> ~Mika

“So Mary’s coming over tonight. This means I will have to hide?” Sherlock asked without looking up from his microscope. The heroin on the slide was unusually pure for street heroin, cut with –

“Unfortunately, yes, unless you _want_ to be deported and never solve this case as a result,”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes but said nothing.

“Knew that wouldn’t be ideal.”

“So where do I go?” The young man turned on his stool to look at John. “The cupboard again?”

“You mean the wardrobe?” John tilted his head to the side.

Sherlock remembered the cramped, musty-smelling darkness of the false back of the piece of furniture. “Yes.”

John gave an apologetic shrug. “It’s either that or pretend to be a tramp until Mary leaves,”

Sherlock rotated his head towards John, icy eyes fixed on his face. _Yes._

John squinted. “Really? You want to go with the pretending-to-be-homeless idea?”

“ _Yes_. We have ten hours, no?”

John half-shrugged. “I suppose. Anyway, what news on the heroin you bought last night?”

“Sixty per cent pure. Ten per cent noscapine, five per cent mannitol, ten per cent quinine, fourteen per cent dextromethorphan and one per cent powdered _daboia russelii_ venom. The last one is what has been killing the people. Clots the veins, mimicking heart attacks,”

“So the Cozzese man we saw last night –”

“ – is working for the main supplier,” Sherlock finished.

“I thought you already knew that?”

“I did,” Sherlock said, rather casually. “But not his _face_. Much easier to track that way.”

“And much easier for him to track _you_ if you’re buying heroin off him,” John muttered, clearly discontented with the whole scenario.

Sherlock scowled at him. “It’s working, isn’t it?”

John let a few minutes pass, tongue running over his lips. “You normally work with the police, don’t you? And it’s because we don’t have the police with us that – ”

“ _Yes_ ,” Sherlock hissed, willing John to shut up. “Precisely.”

John spun on his heel and strode towards the kitchen, eager to escape the waves of tension radiating off the younger man. “Tea?”

“Mmm.”

“Chai?”

“Of course.”

~x~

**_Later_ **

“Ready?” John muttered to Sherlock.

The younger man jammed the woollen hat on his head. “Yes,”

John poked his head out the door and looked around, ears pricked for footsteps. Seeing and hearing nothing, he stepped out the door, motioning for Sherlock to follow him. Quietly, trying to keep their steps light, they made their way out of the block of flats and across the street to several street corners. Whenever they reached one, they would stop to make the same checks for strangers ( _potential observers, potential spies, especially for the FCD_ ) as they had done when they left the flat. Although on two occasions they had to hang back until the stranger or strangers had passed, they eventually reached a hollowed-out building, long since abandoned.

“Here alright?” John asked, voice low, still conscious of being overheard. Sherlock nodded and they skidded down the crater together, continuing onwards until they found the furthest point away from the street. Concealed by shadow save for the beam of a torch, John spread out the spare duvet on the blackened ground, whilst Sherlock…

“What are you _doing_?” he hissed.

“I am playing homeless, no?” Sherlock panted, continuing to roll about on the floor. “So I must look like I am homeless. Make dirty the duvet too.”

John exhaled a little and pulled a face before pressing the thick rectangle of material and padding into the ground, covering it in ash, dirt and rubble. Once one side was muddied up to his satisfaction, he flipped it over and pressed the other side into the ground, grinding it in there as if it was someone he hated.

Sherlock dug his hands into the ash below, smearing it on his face as if putting on literal war-paint. Resisting touching his face for fear the ash would come away from his cheekbones, he raised himself to his feet and tottered unsteadily towards John.

“I think that would be sufficient,” he said quietly.

John backed away, allowing Sherlock to settle himself on the newly-dirtied covering. He looked around one last time to ensure that nobody had seen their activities. When he was satisfied that nobody had, he crouched down by Sherlock.

“I’ll come back to get you, okay? Whether tonight or tomorrow morning.”

 _Of course_ , Sherlock wanted to say, but wisely chose to keep it between his ears.

“Just…” John licked his lips. “Stay safe.” With one final nod, he straightened up and walked away, Sherlock watching after him, not fully knowing what to say in response.

~x~

At precisely eight o’clock that evening, the bell rang. _Three seconds – Mary_ , John thought, shaking his head. It sounded like something Sherlock would think. _He’s only been living with me a month. Is he already getting to me?_

Mary straightened up, a smile on her face when she saw the door being opened. “Hello,”

“Hi,” John replied, and there was such an overwhelming amount of warmth in his voice and body language she felt her heart begin to crumble. “You alright?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” she replied, stepping in as soon as he stepped aside to let her in. “Ah, John…”

“Mm?”

 _Tell him. Just tell him._ “I…I can’t stay long. Too much paperwork to get through,”

Something flickered over John’s face. “Oh! Alright, then. No worries. I just hadn’t seen you in a while, so…” He shrugged. “Drink?”

 “Go on then,” she forced out along with a chuckle, taking a seat on one of the sofas, fighting not to perch on it. “How’s things been with you?”

“Fine,” a disembodied voice called back. Glasses clinked, followed by the _glug_ ging sound of liquid being poured into them. “Lot busier since the hospital was bombed, though,”

“Yeah, well…” She cleared her throat. “You’re having to physically go to peoples’ houses to treat them now, aren’t you? Bound to feel a lot busier and you’re probably a lot more tired than normal, too.”

John nodded as he came back in, holding one glass of wine and another of clear, amber liquid. Mary muttered her thanks as she took the former and gulped it, hoping it would drown the nerves forming a knot in her stomach. She barely heard John’s responses as they chatted about nothing, just saw his face as it creased into a concerned frown, deepening as the conversation continued.

“Are you alright? You look like you’re in pain. Something wrong?”

_Do it. Do it now._

“Al _right_ ,” she hissed to herself. Gripping her glass tight and lowering her head minutely, Mary took a deep breath, the knot in her stomach seeming to strain uncomfortably against the muscle. Without letting another second pass, she said what she came to say, not looking at John’s face until it was over, the words dripping from her lips like bile. A long, long silence followed, taut as an elastic band. John’s face was unreadable as he processed what he’d been told, flickering through the whole spectrum of emotions.

 _I’m sorry_ , Mary wanted to say, knowing it wasn’t enough; would never be enough. _I’m so sorry._

John’s jaw locked, teeth gritted so hard he was sure he’d break them. Getting up, he stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the hall, extending an arm towards the door. Understanding, Mary put the glass down and walked unsteadily towards the door, taking her coat along the way and sliding it over her shoulders. John followed in order to open the front door for her, jaw still locked tight in barely-repressed anger.

John counted the seconds until he could no longer hear her footsteps before shutting the door, gripping onto the smooth surface and taking deep breaths. He heard the pots bubble happily on the hob, realising the food in them was almost ready for serving. He also realised that Sherlock was still out there, waiting for John to come back for him, as he said he would.

“Shit,” John hissed, pulling on his shoes and glancing at the time. 8:30. Turning off the hobs, he tore his coat off the bannister, hearing the muffled jingle of his keys in one of the pockets as he did, and rushed out the flat, slamming the door behind him.


	28. Chapter Twenty-Seven

_Bombed three weeks ago – two other people have taken shelter here since then – one moved on, the other died – starvation –_

Sherlock angled himself from a sitting position, shining the torch John had left him (considering the frequency of use of that torch over the last month, he might as well keep it) around the hollowed-out building. Might as well keep his mind occupied whilst waiting for John’s girlfriend to leave the flat. He had seen her before on the streets during the day as they respectively went about their business. Even then, he had wondered if John knew she was not only working for the FCD but cheating on him with a Rubarian politician.

He turned his attention back to his hideout.

_First inhabitant was female – naturally brunette – Centralian Caderan  – teenager – only child – abusive boyfriend – from a single-parent family –_

He stopped as he heard footsteps approaching, the sounds bouncing off the ragged bricks and crumbling foundations.

“John?” he ventured before clapping a hand over his mouth. _Not John – footsteps are too heavy._

The owner of the footsteps stopped, body rotating around the ruined space. “Who’s there?” he grunted out, voice harsh ( _from alcoholism and smoking_ ). Recognition slammed into Sherlock at the same time the memory of the other man’s boot slamming into his ribs did. _Waters. Steven Waters._

“Who the fuck’s there?” Waters yelled again, louder this time, hands curling into fists. Sherlock just about managed to turn off the torch and still himself before Waters raised his head. “I know there’s _someone_ there…”

“The fuck are you talking to, mate?” another voice asked, an undercurrent of laughter in his voice. “You goin’ a bit doolally?”

_Another Unbroken Circle member – married – two children, a boy and a girl – one is three years old, the other five – a cat – and a dog – three-bedroom flat – difficulty holding down a job – sleeps on left side of the bed – left school with three subjects –_

“Nah, mate. Thought there was someone further back there,”

“Is there?”

A shrug. “Dunno.”

“You mean to tell me you didn’t look? Might be an Avanzian,”

Sherlock’s throat dried up at the last word. _Please don’t come looking for me. Please don’t –_

“Nah. I prob’ly _am_ going a bit nuts. Got the…stuff?”

There was a questioning silence before realisation struck the other man. “Oh yeah! Right here.”

A rustling sound followed the exclamation. Sherlock leaned forward, squinting, balancing his weight on the quilt-cushioned ground. _A packet – bulky – lines and angles – thick rectangle in the middle –_

“Money,” he breathed before he could stop himself. “But _why?_ ”

The two men further up stopped with their exchange, turning to face the sound. Sherlock swallowed, retreating further back into the hollow of the safe space, heart thudding. It was fortunate he’d remembered to think aloud in Caderan rather than Avanzian.

“Did you ‘ear that?”

“I _definitely_ ‘eard that. There _is_ someone there.”

Both men turned to completely face the back of the hollow and began walking towards it, strides long and quick. Sherlock ducked his head down, steering his mind onto the other person who had inhabited the hollow space before him.

_Second inhabitant: male – fifteen years old – orphan – Giratic-born – redhead – lost parents in a bombing – stole clothes to stay warm –_

He was blinded by a light in his eyes.

“‘Oo the fuck are you?”

Sherlock swallowed, hand raised to shield his eyes from the light. He’d had no time to think of an alibi in the event that he was seen by anyone apart from John. He fought to keep calm, timing his breathing patterns.

“‘E’s just some bum, Steve. Dun’ it matter?”

“Y’know summat?” Waters kicked at Sherlock, missing by millimetres. “Can’t stand bums. Lazy enuff t’ sit on the street and take our money, dun’ wanna get jobs.”

“Please,” Sherlock uttered, employing the same Upper Caderan accent he’d used the previous day, infusing the suggestion of a sob into his voice. “I lost my house and family in the bombings in the Giulian district last week. I’ve been moving around ever since, trying to stay – ”

“And _this?_ ” Waters sneered, clenching one fist around the quilt spread out underneath Sherlock. “Where’d you get this, huh? Looks too clean ‘n’ new t’ be taken from your ‘ouse if it was bombed last week.”

“In the wreckage of another house.” Sherlock studied Waters’s face, watching for a sign he was swallowing the river of lies. “In a cupboard. It was clean.”

“What if the family were away?”

“Steve, nobody’s allowed in or ou’ o’ Cadera except for officials, remember?” the other man muttered, nudging the Unbroken Circle member in the side.

“Oh.” Waters backed off, head tilted to the side. _He_ was the one who seemed to be studying _Sherlock_ now, eyes squinted, roaming across the Avanzian’s face. “Wait a sec. I fink I recognise you.”

Panic swelled in the young man’s throat, almost suffocating him. He contorted his face into an expression of confusion. “I can’t imagine where you would have seen me before,”

“No.” Waters stepped closer, face remaining in that same, squinting expression. Sherlock resisted the acidic remark waiting on the tip of his tongue. “I _definitely_ recognise you. You’re not with the government, are you?”

“No.” _Not a total lie._

Waters let the answer stretch in the winter air. “That was a quick answer. A bit _too_ quick. You’re lying.”

~x~

John’s feet pounded as he ran down the street, heart pounding, chest burning with the exertion on his body. He slowed towards the end as voices reached his ears, growing louder as he got closer. Sherlock’s, albeit with the Upper Caderan accent he’d affected not twenty-four hours previously, and another one. Rougher, more domineering, with a Lower Caderan accent.

John edged towards the decimated corner that in peacetime had signified the turn into the wider street to his right. His hand unconsciously strayed to his hip as he listened in on the conversation, attempting to identify the other man via voice alone.

“…What if the family were away?”

“Steve, nobody’s allowed in or out of Cadera…”

 _Waters_ , thought John, awareness spiking in his veins like adrenaline. _Two men. Other’s Unbroken Circle, probably._ He pressed himself against the wall and inched along it, right to the edge, where he was able to get a better view of the situation.

~x~

“What would…Why would I be lying?”

The fear was fake, the right amount injected solely to buy time. Still, Waters drew closer to Sherlock, the territorial invasion most unwelcome.

“Yeah, I defin’tely recognise you.”

Out the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw a flicker of movement behind the wall that once formed part of the lower right corner of a building.

“You wouldn’t happen to be the Avanzian I kicked the shit out of, wouldja?”

The man next to him laughed. “Steve, they’ve all been found an’ deported. This bloke can’t be Avanzian, he ain’t dark enough t’ be one.”

“The Avanzian I beat up weren’t that dark. Though he ‘ad the curly hair of one.” Waters’ eyes roamed upwards. “Take yer ‘at off.”

_John, where are you?_

Sherlock kept his face blank, reaching an arm up slowly towards the hat ( _that woollen monstrosity – I knew it would get me into trouble someday_ ), eyes fixed on Waters, who seemed determined for Sherlock to be the Avanzian whose ribs he’d fractured not one month ago. Of course, Sherlock knew he was, but there was some shred of satisfaction in Waters’ uncertainty.

“Gerron with it,” Waters growled, impatient.

“Fine,” Sherlock breathed, gripping onto the hat.

Just as he did, a shot rang out, changing the look on Waters’ face to one of surprise. Sherlock and the other man looked at the centre of Waters’ forehead, where a small hole was illuminated by faint street light.

“S-Steve?” the other man stammered, frozen to the spot.

Eyes rolling in the back of the head, Waters’ head seemed to roll slightly before the man slumped to the floor, body folding underneath him. The other man seemed to unfreeze at that point, whipping his head side to side in panic as he tried to find the shooter. Giving up and letting out breathy whimpers, he took off without another word to Sherlock, veering right and continuing on down the street.

After a few minutes, a figure emerged from behind the wall, running to Sherlock and avoiding the brains and blood splashed out before him.

“Alright?” John breathed, darting a quick glance at the body beside him.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied as he got off the quilt, his natural accent returning, eyes straying to the residue on John’s fingers. _You were the shooter._ “Mary has gone,”

“Yeah, she has,” John replied in an abrupt tone, gathering up the quilt as quickly as possible.

 _Don’t want to talk about it – something has happened – she told you she was cheating on you, though not who with._ “She is not returning.”

“No, she isn’t,” John responded, barely-controlled anger in his voice, the ache in his chest seeming to double. “Come on. Home.”


	29. Chapter Twenty-Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's a bit later than normal - I was out all day with family, so I couldn't get to a computer! Thanks and hello to everyone who's recently subbed/ bookmarked/ read this, too. Enjoy. ~Mika

**_Same evening_ **

Mary barely remembered the walk home, keeping her head down and her coat pulled tight around her. John’s expression as he saw her out of the flat remained in her mind, burned into her vision even as she reached her own flat. Her lungs hurt, her heart even more so despite being the cause of that night’s pain and her hands shook as she searched for her keys.

She didn’t realise she was crying until she was inside the flat, removing her coat. As she hung it up on the bannister, the breeze of its movements made her cheeks feel colder than it would normally be. She tentatively pressed her fingertips against her face, drawing her hand away to look at them. The moisture on them glimmered faintly in the hallway light.

Scrubbing frantically at her face with her sleeve, she picked up a leaflet, deciding to order a takeaway, given that she hadn’t eaten since lunchtime. Settling herself on the sofa, she pulled out her mobile and dialled the number, raising the phone to her ear when –

“Hello.”

She jumped and quickly hung up, almost dropping the phone as she did. “Anderson? How did _you_ get into my flat?”

Anderson sat back, fingering something. “Ways and means afforded to me by working for the FCD. I’m surprised you don’t know about them yet.” His eyes flickered up to meet hers. “You _are_ still working for the FCD, aren’t you? Haven’t seen you around in a while.”

“Well, I haven’t been given any assignments recently,” Mary replied, trying to suppress the inevitable breaks in her voice. “Also, I’m sure you know about the hospital bombing…”

“Doesn’t mean you stop looking,” Anderson replied coolly. “Unless there’s something you’re not telling us. John Watson is your boyfriend, yes?”

Mary steeled herself against the bolt of pain at the mention of his name. “ _Was_ ,” she replied, comfortable about telling the truth for the first time. “You caught me at a bad time,”

“The relationship is over, then?”

It was more of a statement than a question, phrased with such careless nonchalance that it served to pain her even more. “Yes,” she replied hoarsely.

Anderson sat forward. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about a recent database hack, would you? In which Dr. Watson’s name, home address and IP address were removed?”

Mary sighed. “You asked me about this two weeks ago. My answer’s the same – I didn’t do it, and whoever did it was smart enough to erase all trace of their existence,”

Anderson huffed in defeat. “Well, regardless, there’s still one known Avanzian that has yet to be found and deported. And that coinciding with the removal of Dr. Watson’s details from the database has caused questions to be asked.”

Mary frowned. “I don’t see how. The government are opposed to immigration at the moment, remember? The Straniero Act of 2301…”

“Yes, I know about the Straniero Act!” Anderson snapped. He leaned forward, dropping his voice. “But that was at the _start_ of this war, when there was confidence in a Caderan victory. Now…there are murmurs. There’s dissent. You don’t think it’s not reaching up to the higher levels of government?”

Mary took a few minutes to let this process. She stared at Anderson as if he’d lost his mind. “Philip, are you here to dob me in for something I didn’t do or discuss conspiracy theories with me? Because you ought to pick one and I’m not exactly in the mood for either.”

Flinching at the use of his given name, Anderson gave an uncertain shrug. “You’re sure you didn’t hack into the FCD database?”

Mary sighed, rubbing her temples. “Yes, I’m bloody sure. And I’d appreciate a fucking phone call next time rather than breaking into my flat,”

Anderson spun something in his fingers that glimmered in the light. It looked a lot like the key Mary had on her chain. “Didn’t break in.”

She held her hand out flat. “Give it to me. And then get out of my flat.”

Anderson looked almost wounded, body slightly slumped forward. Pushing himself to his feet, he pressed the key in Mary’s hand and made his way towards the door.

“Wait!”

He stopped.

“Just remembered. I’ve locked the door for the night, I’ll let you out.”

Once he was out, she slammed and double-locked it, hanging the key up on its usual hook by the door. Returning to the living room, she found her phone and dialled the same takeaway place, ordering more than she would normally. It had been a tumultuous night, she reasoned with herself. She deserved the food.

~x~

**_Meanwhile_ **

John kicked the door shut behind him, cursing the weather for swelling the wood and making it difficult to shut. He locked it and practically marched towards the kitchen, dumping the key on the scorched counter and glancing at the clock. 8:45.

He turned to Sherlock, who was standing in the middle of the kitchen, still dirtied from the act that they’d put on.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” John asked, not wishing to let the silence linger for too long. “They didn’t hurt you in any way?”

“No,” Sherlock replied, natural accent back in place. “I am fine.”

“Good. Hungry?”

Sherlock shook his head, making his way towards the living room.

“Alright then,” John uttered under his breath, stomach gurgling as he did so. Moving to the hob, he lifted the lids on the previously-boiling pan, holding the other hand over the still water within. There was still a slight heat coming off the surface. Grabbing a fork from the drawer, he dipped it into the pan and speared a piece of pasta in one, letting it roll over his tongue before chewing and swallowing it. He pulled a face – it was balanced delicately on the colder end of lukewarm.

“No,” he grunted, dumping it in the food bin. Luckily, he had only been preparing a starter in those pans, so there wasn’t much wasted food as a consequence. Exhaling, he returned to the oven and set it to one hundred and eighty degrees, knowing there were a couple of chicken kievs in the freezer he hadn’t touched in a while. He heard the water running for a few minutes and was momentarily confused ( _Sherlock was in the living room just now…_ ). He shovelled the kievs and some chips onto a tray when the oven’s light clicked off, indicating that it was ready.

After a while, the water stopped running and John heard Sherlock return to the main living space, footsteps quietly (and wetly) padding into the kitchen. His eyes flickered to the oven and then to John, a questioning look in them.

“Yes,” John answered, voice cutting the air between them. “You _are_ eating. You haven’t eaten in two days and I know – ” he held up a hand to silence Sherlock “ – digestion slows you down. But if your body is transport, as you said, then transport still needs to be maintained. I think you forget that sometimes.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest before shutting it again, nodding once. “Fine.”

~x~

**_04:47_ **

The turning of the handle was what woke John up in the small hours of the next day. He sat bolt upright, reaching for a gun that wasn’t there.

“Who’s there?” he rasped, voice heavy with sleep, even though he had a very good idea as to whom it was. Sherlock didn’t reply, simply made his way towards the bed, threw back the corner on the unoccupied side and slid in, freckled back to John, pulling the cover back over himself.

 _What are you doing?_ John wanted to ask, but lacked the conviction needed to propel the words out of his mouth. In truth, he’d expected this day for a while, given Sherlock’s lack of respect for personal space. And something in him relaxed at the prospect of Sherlock being in his field of vision, if only for tonight, in case the other bloke he saw with Waters decided to round up a few mates and – somehow – track Sherlock down. Which would, naturally, lead them to the flat.

He listened to the younger man breathing for a while, shoulders rising and falling minutely. Eventually, even though his alarm was set for half six, he managed to fall asleep again, arm outstretched between him and the intriguing man in his bed.


	30. Chapter Twenty-Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember [this](http://www.archiveofourown.org/works/913167/chapters/2033894)? I've always meant to come back to it and this is it. Can't link to the precise quotation, but it's in italics and full of dashes at the start of the chapter. Anyway, here's #29.

**_The previous week_ **

“No bombings,”

“What?”

Sherlock looked up from his microscope. “This has been the third day where there have not been bombings.”

“Yeah, ‘cause it’s the week of Talena,” John replied in a flippant tone. He caught Sherlock’s expression. “You’ve never heard of it?”

Sherlock returned to his microscope, testing the pronunciation in his mind. He’d heard of Talena, of course; he had read about it in Avanzian-translated Caderan novels as a child and heard about it from them. However, he had never heard the word spoken aloud. _Talena – Caderan name for_ insiemna _– seven-day holiday but month-long preparation and celebration – families usually gather – presents – television – films – food – alcohol – bad jumpers –_

 “…of course,”

“Hmm?” Sherlock uttered, pulling himself out of his mind palace. God knows what he was doing idling around the Talena room when there was a case to be solved.

“I said – ” there was an edge of irritation in John’s voice “ – that Avanzians usually celebrated _insiemna_ , of course. So you might not have heard of it. But don’t you have Caderan roots?”

“Yes.”

The sharpness of Sherlock’s tone halted John’s next question in his tracks. He recognised that tone as one he used whenever someone asked him about _his_ family when he was a lot younger. He chose to let it go. He set the mug of tea by Sherlock.

“You served in Avanzia for five years. You know about _insiemna_ ,”

“Only rough details,” John clarified. “Not the specifics. I presumed you would know more about them, although if you’re half-Caderan – ”

“On my father’s side,” Sherlock replied. “But he left when I was very young. I do not know what happened to him.”

Something inside John seemed to freeze solid at that last sentence. Almost instantly, the recurring dream of the last five weeks flashed into his mind; images of _greying curls coloured by blood; of stillness and screams followed by silence –_

“John?”

John resurfaced from that memory with a gasp of air, hand gripping the sofa hard enough to whiten his knuckles. He unclenched his fist slowly, releasing the material, which sagged down to its natural tension over the stuffing.

“Your dad,” John began, throat dry. He swallowed, continuing, not really wanting to hear the answer. “Was he in the Avanzian army?”

Sherlock nodded slowly. “Yes, he was. Mother would not talk about him, but she kept his things in a box. Photos. Gifts from their courtship. I found that box and learned from that that he was in the Avanzian army. This was before a law was passed in Avanzia decreeing that only Avanzians could serve in the Avanzian army, which is why I think still that he is fighting.”

John felt sick. “He had an Avanzian passport?”

“Of course. He would not have been allowed to stay in the country if not.”

“Wonder if he ever felt conflicted fighting against the country of his birth?” John mused aloud, fighting the sick feeling in his stomach.

“I suppose not. He would not have chosen to fight in the army otherwise.” Sherlock had turned his attention back to the microscope.

_It’s not as simple as that_ , John wanted to say. Once again, he withheld the words. He’d experienced Sherlock in an argument and it was not something he wanted to provoke too often. Even if these arguments often ended with Sherlock winning as he would slip into Avanzian, of which John had minimal knowledge.

He pushed the images of blood-soaked curls away from the edge of his brain and turned his attention to the microscope, wandering over to it and peering over the young man’s shoulder. “Anything new?”

“No,” Sherlock murmured, pushing the device away. “Heroin appears to have been cut with the same ingredients.”

“That confirms the multiple dealer theory,”

Sherlock turned in his chair. “It was never a _theory_ ,”

“Sorry,” John muttered, raising his eyebrows. “But it does confirm multiple dealers working for the same person,”

“Yes, it does. Just need to find out for whom they work.”

“And if the person they work for isn’t in Cadera? Nobody’s allowed in or out the country. You can’t travel since your passport is out of date – ”

“John, you’re going too far ahead,” Sherlock interrupted sharply, irritation showing at John pointing out the political situation in Cadera being an obstacle to his clandestine investigation.

John suppressed a smile. “Where we can’t go, correct?”

A sullen silence that John assumed to be an affirmation followed his question. Just then, his mobile rang faintly from the other side of the flat and he ran to answer it, though the flashback-induced iciness still lingered in his core. He decided to not bring up the specifics of that nightmare to Sherlock, even if he was asked.

~x~

Two days later, a package arrived. John was about to set off to see a patient when it arrived; he frowned in confusion when he saw it. _I haven’t ordered anything off the Internet._ He picked it up and felt it, turning it over in his hands. _Small. In a box, whatever it is. Quite light._ He turned it back over and scanned the label on the front, hoping it would offer some clue as to what it was.

When he saw the name, he stilled. Putting the package back down on the mat, he opened his door a crack and peered around, listening out for any movement. The early afternoon air whistled around the semi-enclosed strip of concrete in front of the other flats on that floor, but otherwise it was silent. John closed the door, hearing Sherlock approach.

“What is happening?”

“Nothing.”

Sherlock looked down, straight at the package John had put aside. He picked it up, briefly examined it and tore it open without uttering a word. John wanted to say something, but chose to wait, itching to snatch the strange package out of the younger man’s hands.

Sure enough, it was a box. Sherlock opened it and took something out, fiddling with it in his hand. He pressed a button and the device sprang to life with a jaunty jingle.

“A _phone?_ ” John exclaimed in disbelief.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied. “Already charged and with phone numbers in it,”

Alarm bells rang in John’s head. “Who sent this to you? Who could possibly know you’re here?”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock replied, exasperation in his tone. “I can’t go anywhere without his eyes following me,”

“My what?”

“ _Mycroft_.”

_Is that even a name?_ “Who’s that?”

Sherlock tossed the box aside and headed back to the kitchen. “My brother.”

Snatching up the discarded box, John followed. “Your brother? There’s _two_ of you?”

“Yes,”

_Oh dear God_ , John thought, reaching the kitchen and seeing what Sherlock was doing. “Wait, what are you doing with the microwave?”

“Don’t you have a patient to see?”

“Step away from the microwave.”

“It’s an experiment!”

John huffed. “If I let you conduct the experiment, will you tell me about your brother when I get home?”

_No_ , Sherlock wanted to say. Upon seeing John’s expression, however, what eventually came out of his mouth was a “Yes, fine.”

“Thank you.” John marched off, pulling his coat on and leaving the flat before Sherlock microwaved…whatever it was he was microwaving and the inevitable fire started as a result.


	31. Chapter Thirty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took so long to be updated - I had a bout of writer's block exacerbated by boredom and frustration. Thanks for your patience, as ever. Here's chapter 30. Whew! ~Mika

After John had left, Sherlock picked up the new mobile and turned it on. Once it was ready, he scrolled through the list of contacts until he found the name he was looking for. _Home_ , he though derisively. _Typical of Mycroft to pick a generic code name._

He pressed the green ‘Call’ button and held the device to his ear, listening to it ring for a few minutes before it was finally answered.

“Hello, brother dear. I was wondering when you would finally get in touch,” spoke a smooth voice in fluent Caderan.

“Yes, that’s why you sent me this device,” Sherlock responded dryly, albeit in Avanzian. “Coercion of sorts,”

“Not at all. I see Doctor Watson has been doing what the Avanzian education system couldn’t and got you to learn Caderan,”

Sherlock wasn’t surprised that the man knew about John or the Caderan. The man had what Avanzians would call ‘eyes in every brick’. “Necessity, brother mine.”

“Yes, deportation is never a pleasant idea. Or experience, I suppose. Particularly if the country of one’s origin is about to play unwelcome host to chemical weapons.” The older man cleared his throat. “How’s the Tourist Killer case going? Slow, is it? Suppose it must be without DI Lestrade _et al_. providing the foundations of the case. Though you’ve found other ways, no doubt,”

“You’re not alone, are you.” It wasn’t a question. Sherlock knew that if there wasn’t an ever-present risk of being overheard, Mycroft would also be speaking in Avanzian.

“I very rarely am these days. There’s a little something called ‘a war’ going on.” Mycroft replied dryly. “Congratulations on slipping past the border authorities, by the way.”

“Oh, nonsense. Far too easy.”

“You and I both know that’s not necessarily true.”

Something about his tone made Sherlock pause. “So why am I still being hunted by the Caderan government?”

“Well, I can’t make my Avanzian connections _too_ obvious, Sherlock. I can only do so much,”

“Naturally.” The young man shut the microwave and set the timer to thirty seconds. “John did wonder why there were no visits from FCD agents recently,”

“So he should. There shouldn’t be any more in the future, either, unless the FCD manage to restore his details on their database.”

The timer beeped, the smell of microwaved eyeballs reaching Sherlock’s nose. “They cannot do it because the central government controls the database.” _Eyeballs hot but still intact. Need a higher temperature. Hotter environment._

“Precisely.” Sherlock heard some background noise before his brother spoke again. “I must go. More business to attend to.”

 _More warmongering._ “Very well. Please do not call me again.”

Mycroft’s voice dropped, slipping smoothly into Avanzian. “Oh, but you’re family. Family always looks out for each other, never mind the country in which they inhabit. Eyeballs melt completely at 55 degrees, by the way.”

Sherlock rang off, throwing the portable device across the kitchen as if it burned to the touch. He was not surprised when it hit the wall and did not break, given that the brand of phone was known for its durability. Pulling the latex gloves back on, he carefully scooped the eyeballs he’d spirited from one of the Tourist Killer victims into the bin. He looked at the clock, calculating the time John would be home. The patient in question John had gone to see was being monitored for a serious type of epilepsy, although medication was controlling it. John had been gone for ten point five-six minutes and would be home in twenty point four seconds.

Sherlock rolled his shoulders and peeled the gloves back off, throwing them in after the cooked eyeballs. When had he started actively calculating John’s return? Normally he was too engrossed in an experiment to even _care_ when the former army doctor came in after seeing boring people for between six and nine hours straight ( _seriously, how_ did _he put up with it? Always whinging about minor ailments_ ). He closed his eyes for a millisecond. No, at this present moment, he was not in need of artificial stimulants that John frequently provided. There was still some milk in its carton in the fridge. There was nothing he needed that he could text John to pick up on his way home.

Sherlock wandered to where the phone had landed and picked it up, dusting it off and slipping it into his dressing-gown pocket. A knot had formed somewhere in his chest, bringing with it a prickling feeling of unease. His brother’s voice chose that moment to ring in his head.

_Caring is not an advantage._

“I _know_ ,” Sherlock retorted out loud. He returned to the map pinned on the living room wall, tracing his fingertip along the threads connecting various districts in Cadera, individual pins outside the map indicating the bodies found in other cities. He closed his eyes, brain working through everything he’d obtained so far.

Suddenly, it hit him, his brain screeching to a halt.

He opened his eyes.

_Click._

~x~

**_Three weeks later_ **

The figure outside the flat, wrapped in layer upon layer of winter clothing, lowered his binoculars and sighed in satisfaction. He saw the evasive curly sit at the table with the silhouettes of an array of tools and a laptop. He raised his binoculars again, watching as the Avanzian opened the bottom of the laptop and remove the battery.

 _Probably pretty advanced for him_ , the figure thought, turning the zoom and focus dials on his FCD-issued device. He watched as the Avanzian scanned the interior wirings of the laptop, gently moving some wires by mere millimetres. The figure was astonished at the care and attention the illegal laid onto the device. He – _it_ – seemed to be searching for something. Within seconds, it had found what it was looking for. It prised it from one of the laptop boards, holding it up in its hand.

The figure knew without question that it was the microchip installed in every Caderan laptop that was made in the last ten years, one that sent every scrap of information about the user to the government. He watched with a combination of horror and astonishment as the immigrant laid it down on the table and crushed it with the handle of one of the tools.

The figure lowered his binoculars once more and raised his walkie-talkie to his lips, pressing the relevant button.

“Home, this is Figure Eight. Hilts has been found. I repeat, Hilts has been found. Over.”

The speaker crackled before a voice answered. “Figure Eight, this is Home. Supply the location. Over.”

He raised the device to his lips again. “The location of Hilts is – ”

Before he could say, a fist smashed into the side of his head. As it exploded in pain, stars dancing behind his eyes, he turned to his attacker to fight back. Before he could even complete a turn, another blow plunged him into total darkness.

~x~

John was pleased to see that the man collapsed to the floor with a second punch, particularly as the punches were killing his hand. He quickly checked the man’s pulse – _still alive, should come round in about ten minutes_ – and ran to the front door, slamming it shut once he was inside.

“John?”

“Yes?” John automatically responded.

“Oh, it _is_ you.”

“Who else would it be?” John asked, walking into the kitchen. Sherlock was sitting at the table on his left, working on something. “What are you doing…with my laptop?!”

“Electric chip,” Sherlock answered, rather matter-of-factly, the doctor thought. “Government electric chip. Had to find it.”

“And _have you?_ ” John asked through gritted teeth.

“Yes.”

 _In…one…two…three…out…one…two…three._ “You’d _better_ put this laptop back together and with the wires in the correct places, Sherlock, or I’ll wrap them round your neck. What’s that smell?”

“You can smell it still? I thought I had removed it.”

“ _Sher_ lock!”

“It’s carbonyl sulphide. It was an experiment!”

“To do with the case?”

“Yes.”

“Where is…” John gestured wildly. “Where is the equipment now?”

“In the process of sterilisation. In relation to that, I would not advise going into the bathroom for two hours.”

John took one last deep breath and blew out, pushing the carbonyl sulphide and laptop out of his mind. “Sherlock, we have to go. Now.”

“Really? Now?” There was a note of annoyance in the Avanzian’s voice. “Why?”

“It’s the FCD,” John explained. “They’ve found you.”


	32. Chapter Thirty-One

Sherlock froze for a few seconds, hand hovering over the exposed wires and boards of the laptop. “They’ve _found _me? How?”__

“I don’t know, though I did find someone outside, talking to the FCD base.”

“Where is he now?”

“Out cold on the floor,” John answered hurriedly. “No doubt the FCD will send round more people, which is why we need to go, _now,_ ”

Sherlock frowned. “But your laptop – ”

“Will be fine,” John finished. “Your safety is a priority and right now it’s threatened. Grab the duvet off the bed and your hat and coat off the hook and come with me.”

Something in John’s voice caused Sherlock’s spine to stiffen. Without another word, he pushed the chair back and flew towards the bedroom. John grabbed his coat and a few things, including a torch and a lighter from the kitchen drawer, before reuniting with Sherlock at the front door.

~x~

**_FCD base_ **

As Mary passed one of the doors down the long corridor that comprised of the FCD base, she heard the crackle of a walkie-talkie followed by a voice.

“…Hilts has been found. I repeat, Hilts…”

She stopped, heart leaping into her throat. ‘Hilts’ was, of course, the code for the elusive Avanzian they had spent the last eight weeks trying to find. John’s details being erased from the database had aroused suspicion in the whole department, and she had spent the last few weeks in the perimeter of the block of flats he lived in, observing who had come and gone. Most of the days turned up nothing, and given that it was the height of winter, her frustration grew and combined with intolerance for the weather. However, she had struck lucky when one day, John came back with bags bursting with food. She knew John’s appetite had increased recently, but the amount in the bags was suspiciously large, as if he was buying for two people. She had not seen any woman or man enter and leave the building, save for the residents of the flats. In her mind, this cancelled out the theory that he was seeing someone else.

Overall, she concluded, this meant someone else was living there; someone who didn’t want to be seen. Someone who was living in John’s flat illegally.

She had radioed in straightaway. Due to limited resources, it was seventy-two hours before agents were sent out, and it seemed now it had all come to fruition. She felt hot, too hot, a sharp pain in her stomach. She stumbled to the toilet and retched into the bowl, nose and throat burning with the bile, half-digested sandwich ingredients clinging to the walls of her throat and nose. She flushed the toilet and blew her nose, washing her mouth out with water and strolling back out exactly like nothing had happened. As she continued, she heard the heavy footsteps of multiple FCD officers heading towards the main exit. She couldn’t tell how many there were. A lump formed in her throat, tears burning her eyes, David’s voice ringing in her head.

_…he’s not only hiding a curly, he’s fucking it instead of you?_

~x~

John ran straight ahead, not fully knowing nor caring where he was going. The urgency and adrenaline in his brain had met and sharpened into one aim that throbbed through his mind with his pulse: _safety._ He hadn’t released Sherlock’s hand since they had fled the block of flats. He barely felt it in his palm now, as if their hands had fused together; as if they had become one being in the course of their flight for safety.

Finally, he stopped, screeching to a halt outside a bombed-out building. Jagged brick and wood splinters stuck out, starkly pale against the blackness of within, much like teeth framing a mouth. Letting go of Sherlock’s hand, John dug the torch out of his inner pocket, shining the beam into the black hole the bricks and wood framed. Inside was nothing but concrete and rubble, broken up by half-destroyed walls. The winter wind whistled through the building, seeming to ensure that it reached every square inch of the ruins and exacerbated the cold in the process.

“This is the hospital,” Sherlock said, the first words either of them had spoken since they started running.

“Was,” John corrected, realising Sherlock was right. He saw broken streaks of singed mint-green paint on some of the walls and what was left of a flight of stairs. _How did we end up here? More to the point, why? Did my subconscious lead us here?_

He looked around only to see that Sherlock had disappeared. Panic suffused his chest, tightening his lungs. “Sherlock?”

“John, I am here,” the accented baritone responded faintly. John shone the torch in the direction of the voice, almost blinding Sherlock, who raised his hand to shield his eyes. “This is a good spot,”  
 _Watch the volume of your voice,_ John wanted to say, but clamped his lips together before the words could escape his mouth. He strode over to where Sherlock stood, swerving round a ruined wall only to find the young man had set the duvet down behind a heap of wood. John took scope of the surroundings – they were almost completely concealed. For once, the actions of the bombers had produced some good, albeit indirectly.

“Good find,” he breathed before he could stop himself. “Brilliant.”

“You say that often,” Sherlock pointed out, shifting in his winter clothes.

“Sorry. I’ll try and keep a lid on it,” John quickly responded, snatching the lighter from his pocket. He flicked it on and held it to the wood until it ignited. Joining Sherlock, he smoothed out the duvet and curling it around himself.

“No…it’s…it’s okay,” Sherlock responded, voice faltering. He shifted up, pressing himself against the older man. “You must not have to stop.”

“I don’t have to?” John gently corrected, allowing a small smile to cross his face, watching the fire grow and fill the small space with warmth as he looped one arm around the younger man’s shoulders. “No, but I choose to.” _Because it's true._

~x~

“Fugitive Concealment Department! Open up!”

The other agents in the small group shivered as the winter wind slipped its way between their clothing and their bulletproof vests, guns shaking as they were pointed at the door. Their leader hammered on it again twice, yelling the same identifying statement and order both times, leaving a three-minute gap in between. After the third time, the response still consisting of silence, he gave the gesture for the next two foremost agents to break the door down, which they did as easily as if it was made out of paper.

“Search in every room. Thoroughly.”

Every nerve and sense on high alert, the group split up, each individual member taking on every room. Save for the twin humming sounds of the central heating system and the boiler, the silence was heavy on the agents’ heads and shoulders, the scrapes and flutters of chairs being pulled back and papers being moved doing absolutely nothing to ease its weight.

After what felt like hours as nothing significant turned up, the silence was broken by a yell of “Sir! Over here!”

The leader’s head snapped up from where it was buried in a drawer. “What is it?”

“The bathroom, sir!”

Immediately, the whole group reassembled and headed to the small bathroom by the front door. The leader squeezed his way in and peered at the bath, hand flying up to his nose to cover the revolting smell that had reached it. “What in the shit _is_ that?”

“Looks like science equipment, sir,” one of the agents affirmed. “Halcyon did say before he was knocked out that he saw the curly conducting an experiment on Dr. Watson’s laptop. Maybe he’s a scientist of some kind. The curly, not Watson.”

“Would make a lot of sense,” the leader admitted gruffly. “Watson is more of a people doc than a chemistry doc. Must be the curly. Though _why_ is he conducting experiments in a Caderan’s bathroom?”

Silence reigned over the group until a nervous voice spoke up. “Sir?”

The leader sighed wearily. “What is it?”

“You don’t think he could be building a bomb, could you? I mean…he managed to get into the country…then…” The one who’d spoken up faltered, tailing off in the silence that followed.

“You think _Watson’s_ building a bomb?” another questioned in disbelief.

“No. The curly.”

The leader turned this over in his mind. He didn’t reckon the curly _was_ making a bomb with what he was smelling (whatever that was), but as there were many different types of bomb, his estimation was on shaky ground. Still, he couldn’t take any chances.

“Excellent work,” was what he chose to respond with. “Could be the curly. Watson could even be working with him on this bomb.”

“What do we do now?” one of the agents asked, making the mistake of letting uncertainty destabilise his tone.

“What do we do _now?_ ” the leader replied mockingly. “What do you _think_ we do? We find Watson and the curly. We start looking now. Come on.”

The members of the group squeezed themselves out of the narrow doorway and headed for the front door, the leader going last. Looking around the flat one last time, he uttered a small sigh before pulling the door up and forcing it back into its hinges, ramming it into the frame behind him with a loud bang.


	33. Chapter Thirty-Two

John woke with a start the next morning, feeling a weight on his shoulder that wasn’t there the previous night. As he turned his head, the ends of unruly curls brushed his chin, tickling it. He wasn’t entirely surprised to find Sherlock asleep, his head being the weight in question.

Blinking the sleep away from his eyes, he looked around blearily. Dawn was just breaking, the fire long gone out. The peace stood out strikingly against the settings; it felt to John as if it should be settled around picturesque countryside rather than a war-ruined city.

Sherlock groaned and stirred as John tried to gently shift away from him, shivering upon waking up fully.

“John?” he murmured sleepily.

“Still here.”

“How long?”

“All night,” John replied dryly.

“Cold,”

“I know.”

“Can we go back to the flat?”

John licked his lips, assessing the situation. The FCD were notoriously heavy-handed when it came to suspects, usually ending up roughing up the suspect and whatever they called home, despite being told not to. Whether the suspect was found guilty or not, his or her FCD-wrecked home would be declared ‘open’, the suspect having to find new living quarters. “Not yet.”

Sherlock whipped his head up and John could swear he saw panic flash in the blue-green-gold eyes of the young man. “But…”

“They will be watching the flat, Sherlock,” John explained, voice hardened just a little as to convey the gravity of the situation. “They would arrest us on sight,”

“ _Let_ them,” Sherlock grumbled. “I need to get my notes for the case – ”

“You’ll have to go without for now. Did you not put them in that mind palace of yours? Make some sort of back-up?”

There was a long pause before Sherlock finally uttered a sheepish “No,” sounding very much like a scolded child.

“You mean you _don’t_ make backups?” John stared at him in puzzlement. “You’ve got everything else in that mind of yours, why not these?”

“I have never needed this before,” Sherlock replied indignantly.

John exhaled, not knowing what else to do. “Right. Okay. I’m going to get some food and come back. Want anything?”

“No.”

“Okay then,” John muttered, leaving the enclosure and heading towards what was left of the high street.

~x~

As John was making his way towards the local bakery, he unknowingly passed David Callanos, who in turn was making his way towards a small café from which he’d had his morning coffee since moving to Cadera. Much as he disliked Caderan coffee, it provided a welcome morning kick; a holdover until he got to his office, where he had Rubarian coffee on tap.

As he ordered and took a seat at his usual place – not without effort, he realised alarmingly, making a mental note to hit the gym before he got back to East Rubaria – the jingle that signified the start of the news reached his ears from his right. Warm satisfaction filled him, knowing exactly what the lead news item would be.

“Good morning, this is Central Caderan News, with Ellen McCawl and…”

David sat back, watching the screen roll over the summary of the morning’s news. He realised Mary hadn’t called in a week or so. He knew she’d finally finished with her war vet. boyfriend and had continued to screw David since, though without the vigour and enthusiasm in the weeks leading up to the break-up. He took the lack of calling as a sign of her manning up (or woman-ing up) and fulfilling the promise she’d sniped at him before she ended her relationship. He shrugged, knowing she only wanted a diversion from life and guilt. He wanted exactly the same. No loss there.

His head snapped up towards the television in the bar when he heard the keyword he’d been listening out for. He watched the entire news item whilst slurping his scalding coffee, viewing the shaky footage of the destruction in Avanzia. He suddenly felt very uneasy, an icy knot forming in his stomach. Still, he forced himself to watch the item until it ended, paying for his coffee and exiting the café. His skin prickled as if feverish, perhaps with the eyes of the café patrons watching him as he left. Sure, they didn’t know who he was, but his mode of dress spoke for him in the way identifying symbols could not.

~x~

Mary was seeing a patient at their home when the news broke. She was treating a broken leg at the time – the patient in question was a young boy who had tripped over some rubble and had landed awkwardly. His mother, hovering anxiously over the boy, had sat down when the news had broken.

“ _…estimated fourteen thousand fatalities…_ ”

“ _…Caderan government…_ ”

Mary tuned out the television as best as she could, finishing the process of setting the splint. She looked up at the boy, smiling. “Okay?”

The child nodded, sleepy from the painkillers he had been given. “Mmkay,”

“Good.” Mary turned to his mother. “Mrs Brehnstoft? I’ve finished setting the splint. If Robbie rests it, he should be up and about within a week or two. Paracetamol and ibuprofen would be fine to control the pain.”

The older woman wasn’t listening, however, eyes fixed on the television, blank horror on her face.

Mary tried again. “Mrs Brehnstoft?”

The woman snapped out of her trance and looked at Mary, flustered. “Oh, sorry. Sorry. How much do you want?”

“Mrs Brehnstoft, did you hear what I said?”

“He’s got a broken leg, you said.”

“Well, yes. But I’ve set it in a splint, and if he rests it for a week or two, he’ll be up and about in no time. If he needs pain relief, he can take regular painkillers. Paracetamol and ibuprofen.”

The woman nodded. “Painkillers and rest. Okay. My purse is out here…if you want to…”

“Bye, Robbie,” Mary whispered, giving a small wave to the boy, who waved back clumsily, before turning her attention to his mother.

“Sorry about that in there,” the older woman said, voice shaking. “Not paying attention, I mean. It’s just…my husband, Robbie’s father, he’s…he’s over there at the moment.”

Mary swallowed, thoughts turning back to John. It had been a year since he was discharged, but her mind couldn’t help but mesh that with the current situation. _What if John was still out there? What if he was in the provinces that –_

“£40, was it?”

It was Mary’s turn to shake herself out of a trance. “Er…Yes. Yes it was. Thank you.”

“No, thank _you_ ,” Mrs Brehnstoft replied. “I know how hard it is these days, how stretched medical staff are thanks to this… _war_.” She spat the word out with force, face hardening for a minute before she sighed, resignation evident in her body language, before continuing. “So, yes, thank you immensely.”

Mary smiled and made the necessary professional noises as she left, though she couldn’t help but feel the weight of sadness and resurrected guilt on her shoulders that stayed with her as she attended to patients throughout the day.

~x~

As John made his way back to the temporary camp, he caught various snatches of sentences as people talked to each other. This was not unusual at this hour, given that many were either commuting to work or trying to emigrate from the country illegally. However, it was the snatches of conversation he picked up that piqued his interest. Words and phrases like ‘Avanzia’ and ‘weapons’, ‘destruction’ and ‘this morning’, floating lazily in the air like scraps of paper being dropped from a great height.

It was then that he knew. After months of secrecy and rumour followed by explicit confirmation and silence, the government had finally launched the chemical weapons in a desperate bid to end the decade-plus-long war that had ravaged both cities. He forced himself to walk on, wondering not only how he was going to tell Sherlock, but how the young man would react.


	34. Chapter Thirty-Three

Meanwhile, bored with sitting and waiting for John, Sherlock decided to return to the flat. If he was unable to succeed in reclaiming the notes, he could at least _try_. He had heard John’s words, of course, but it did not mean that he would heed them.

Reluctantly wriggling out of the thick, warm duvet, the young man pulled on his coat and hat, zipping the former up to his chin. As the coat shrank around him from being zipped up, he felt a slight pressure in the left pocket against his leg. Searching the pocket in question, he felt a ball of coarse wool and pulled it out, unrolling it. It separated into two items.

“Of course,” he muttered, pulling the gloves onto his hands and the woollen hat on his head. Standing up, he pulled up the map of Cadera in his mind, mapping and following the route back to the flat from the ruined hospital in which they’d taken shelter.

~x~

“Sherlock?” John called when he approached the corner of the enclosure they’d set up camp in. “I brought some food for us to last us until the evening. I’ve no idea what we’ll do for… _fuck’s sake!_ ”

The last curse was brought on by the realisation that Sherlock had fled from the enclave. _He must have gone back to the flat, the bugger,_ John thought with an outward sigh. _Does he not listen to a_ word _I say?_

“Course not,” he muttered, answering his own question. “He’s Sherlock sodding Holmes, he only listens to himself.”

Lowering the straining bag of food onto the duvet, he took his gun from its hiding place and stuffed it in his inner pocket, breaking into a run in the direction of the block of flats which he was _sure_ would be staffed by FCD agents.

~x~

Sherlock took his time as he ascended the stairs to the fifth floor. He was calm about leisurely strolling back into dangerous fields; in fact, he’d missed it completely since arriving in Cadera. So had John, going by the physical and psychological changes Sherlock had witnessed over the last two months.

He hopped gracefully from the last step to the concrete in front of the door that led to the fifth floor, almost slipping in the process.

“Bloody winter clothes,” he hissed in Avanzian. They were so bulky and cumbersome compared to what he was used to; he was sure they were the cause of his almost missing the step. He struggled to remember the phrase used in Caderan-language philosophy. _A necessary evil._ The clothes were a necessary evil. However, they were not the key issue at that present moment. _Don’t get distracted._

The door leading to the path outside the fifth-floor flats was open, the lock broken ( _Yale – seven years old – vandalism and FCD – repeatedly – last five months_ ). Sherlock had no problem in gently pushing the door open and letting himself in. He stopped, craning his neck round the corner, pulling it back when he spotted two FCD agents flanking the entrance to John’s flat. _Door was kicked in last night – flat is ‘open’._

Rolling his shoulders, he slouched, shoving his hands into the coat pockets and turned round the corner onto the main pathway connecting the flats.

~x~

Just before John reached the square the flats were situated on, he halted. He’d suddenly remembered that if his flat had been searched by the FCD, they would have staffed some guards outside the entrance of the flat. Guards who were waiting for Sherlock and himself to return to the flat. Guards who would arrest the pair of them on sight.

He backed off slowly, turning and strolling calmly to the corner of the building, turning right and continuing to walk down the street. His brain worked furiously, ever aware of where the road turned into the square, albeit not in full view of the guards at his door. Eventually, he found a turning that would lead him to the side wall of the block of flats. He took the turning, pressing himself against the wall, thanking his lucky stars that the few people who passed him were too absorbed in their own worlds to look closely at him.

Reaching the end of the street he’d turned into, he evened out his breathing and focused on where he wanted to get to. Manoeuvring his body into a position not unlike a runner preparing for a race, he counted down from five under his breath and broke into a run, almost colliding with the side wall of the flats he was aiming for.

~x~

Anderson shifted his weight from one foot to the other, filling his cheeks with air and blowing it out, watching it convert to steam in the winter air. His watch had just started, but he was already bored. There was still four hours to go until lunch, and Watson and the curly were unlikely to return. They may have been spotted, but they were smart enough to maintain evasiveness. He doubted he’d see them today.

“What do you think?”

“Huh?” the other guard grunted. “What do I think what?”

“Watson and the curly.”

“What about them?”

“Do you think they’ll try and come back to the flat?”

The other guard shrugged. “I dunno. Why, do you think so?”

“Nah.” Anderson tried to make his tone offhanded. “They’re too smart for that.”

The other guard scoffed. “Even the curly?”

“Halycon said he saw the curly take apart a laptop,”

“And that means he’s a smart one?”

“No, you don’t understand.” Anderson turned to the man next to him. “Halcyon said it was the _way_ the curly was taking apart the laptop. He said it was like the curly knew what he was doing.”

“Which was?” The other guard sounded bored.

“Taking out the Spy Chip. Apparently. He crushed it with the handle of one of the tools.”

“If he was a curly, how would he know that existed?”

“Exactly.” Anderson turned back to face the walkway that connected the flats, only to see someone new and dressed in layer upon layer of winter clothing. “Yes? Can I help you?”

“Yeah,” the stranger grunted in a Lower Caderan accent. “This flat open?”

The man couldn’t have been more than twenty-four or twenty-five-years old, his accent chipping at the words. His clothes were dirty and torn. Although Anderson knew it violated procedure as technically the flat hadn’t been marked as ‘open’, he felt sorry for the man in front of him.

“At the moment it is, yeah. Go ahead.”

“Fanks.” The man stepped through and mooched into the flat, footsteps heavy and clumsy.

The other guard glared at Anderson. “What are you _doing?_ ”

“If Watson and the curly are found, they’re not gonna be able to come back, are they?” Anderson shot back.

The other guard made a non-committal noise and shrugged. Both men resumed their watch, thinking of ways in which they could pass the time whilst still looking like they were doing their job.

~x~

“Fanks,” Sherlock grunted in a Lower Caderan accent, stomping past the men and into the flat. He didn’t dare lower his hood or remove his hat in case the men were watching him. He looked in every room, pretending to be searching for valuables, though in practice the things he wanted were in the living room.

He looked at the dining room table, where the laptop was still open and in pieces, wires strewn haphazardly on the device and the table. The motherboard glimmered in the dim light, the fragments of what he’d heard the guards outside call the Spy Chip scattered in a star-like pattern.

Turning away, his eyes fell on the map, still pinned to the wall, and the disseminated notes on the stand and living room. Spotting a highlighter, he removed the pins connecting the threads on the map and drew dots and lines on the map in their places. Once he was satisfied, he unzipped his coat and pocketed the pen. He removed the newly-vandalised map from the wall, rolling it up and tucking it under his arm. Locating all the notes, he scooped and folded them up, shoving them in his pockets before spinning on his heel, moving gracefully towards the door before remembering his cover.

“Alright?” one of the guards muttered as Sherlock passed them.

“Yeah,” Sherlock grunted back. “Cheers.”

Once he was round the corner facing the door to the stairs, he straightened up and resumed his typical graceful movements, practically gliding all the way down the stairs. He headed out the flats and turned right, knowing exactly where John Watson would be.

~x~

John heard footsteps and rounded the corner swiftly, palming his gun. Seeing the footsteps in question belonged to Sherlock, he relaxed, pulling the young man back to the side of the towering, grey building.

“What the _hell_ were you doing?”

Sherlock grinned and revealed the map tucked under his arm, unfurling it and pressing it against the wall. “The notes for the case. The map.”

“There are guards at the door, Sherlock! I saw from the other side of the square! How – ”

“They are looking for an _Avanzian_ , John,” Sherlock interrupted. “A person who looks like an Avanzian, or what they think one looks like.”

John dropped his voice. “Dark, curly hair, dark skin and eyes?”

Sherlock nodded. “Exactly. They do not search for an Avanzian who looks or sounds like a Caderan.”  
“But your accent…”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Well hidden, mate,” he enunciated in a perfect Lower Caderan accent.

A slow smile spread over John’s face. “That’s fantastic.” He remembered why he’d chased Sherlock in the first place and adopted a stern expression. “Just…don’t run off like that again, or at least, take me with you. Alright?”

_I can’t promise that_ was what Sherlock was about to say, a shrug forming on his shoulders. However, John’s entire body language ( _still – unmoving – won’t accept compromise – serious – something has happened – something he’s heard_ ) explicitly stated that Sherlock had no option.

“Alright,” he breathed reluctantly. “Now, tell me. What has happened?”

Oh. John should have known that Sherlock would deduce that the doctor had heard or experienced something. He took a step forward and a deep breath. “It’s Avanzia.”

“Cadera have deployed the weapons?”

“Yes,” John confirmed quietly, studying the younger man for a reaction.

Sherlock did not respond immediately. A minute passed before he was once again able to do so. “How many dead?”

John shook his head. “I don’t know. Nobody knows for certain. It’s estimated that between ten and fourteen thousand have died, though. Most of Avanzia is completely destroyed.”

Sherlock nodded, jaw tight, his usual mask of indifference slipping. He whirled away, stomping back in the direction of the enclave they were hiding in, but not before John caught a glimpse of painful vulnerability on the young man’s face. He had only seen it once, on the night they met – a brief and silent but striking plea for help. In hindsight, as the two had gotten close, John knew it was something he’d never wanted to see again.

Heart aching for Sherlock, John followed him back to the space that was their temporary home. The day wore on, most of which Sherlock spent in his mind palace before returning to the notes on the case, not speaking at all. John left food intermittently, food which went untouched and was eventually eaten by John. It was the façade of normal, but the axis was off, set askew by the news of the almost total destruction of Sherlock’s home city.

At around ten o’clock that evening, Sherlock finally gave up, slamming his pen down and heading towards the mound of duvets and blankets that had been pilfered from flats and houses deemed ‘open’. John was already well wrapped up in them, writing in his journal using the light from the fire that crackled near them. Divesting himself of a few layers of clothing, Sherlock joined John, curling up with his back to the army doctor. John signed off the entry and closed the notebook, laying it and then pen next to his pillow and turning to Sherlock.

Without another word, he shifted close to the young man and looped an arm around his waist, his face a careful distance away from the back of Sherlock’s neck. For a moment, he didn’t respond and John thought he was already asleep, so when Sherlock pressed backwards into John’s warmth, John’s face pressed into the back of his neck, the doctor was surprised. He tightened his hold around Sherlock, breathing in his scent. As he fell asleep, he felt Sherlock’s fingers fill the spaces between John’s, a slight pressure on the back of his hand as if John was the young man’s lifeline.

_Maybe I am, now,_ John thought. _In some respects._ He pressed his lips silently to the back of the younger man’s neck in response. _I’m here._


	35. Chapter Thirty-Four

Sherlock woke with warmth surrounding him the next morning. For a second, he froze, his half-awake state meaning he did not instantly recognise his surroundings. Once he did, he was calm again.

He relaxed back into the quilt bundle. He had not slept well as a result of what John had told him. No, not _told_ him – _confirmed_ would be a more appropriate verb. It was the first time in two months that he had had a restless night like this. He’d almost forgotten how rough it made him feel – another reason he did not sleep too often.

Cocooning him, John stirred, muscles flinching minutely as he, too, awoke. For a moment, Sherlock thought the army doctor would mutter his name, as was routine for him to do. It was only when his dark-blue eyes opened and locked straight onto Sherlock’s kaleidoscope irises that the latter realised this would not be the case.

“Still here?” John murmured in a sleep-heavy tone.

Sherlock smiled fleetingly. “Yes. Still here.”

John pushed himself up into a sitting position, flinching at the cold as the covers fell away. He rolled his shoulders and stretched, yawning. “Thought you’d be gone. Off somewhere, chasing a criminal.”

Sherlock swallowed. “You asked me not to, so I did not do so.”

John gave a small smile, rubbing the younger man’s arm. He noticed the dark circles under Sherlock’s eyes and the slight sadness in them. “How long have you been awake?”

“Not long. A little time before you.”

“‘Kay.” John spotted the bag full of food. “Breakfast?”

Sherlock nodded, clutching a tattered hoodie and pulling it over his shoulders as John leapt over to the bag, crouching by it. _Two point six degrees Celsius this morning – fog will lift by one p.m. – sunny for the rest of the day –_

“Okay. We’ve got some bananas, a couple of oranges, apples, bread rolls, croissants, orange juice, pineapple juice, cereal and milk. As well as the cups, spoons and bowls we found in the open flats, of course.” John turned his head towards Sherlock. “What d’you fancy?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Surprise me.”

“Alright.” John sat back, fetching the orange juice, banana and a croissant from the bag. Filling a cup, he passed it and the food carefully to Sherlock, who took it gratefully. He made his own breakfast before joining Sherlock, the two munching and slurping in comfortable, companionable silence.

~x~

“Day two,” the guard sighed, resuming his post by the broken door from when he and his colleague had left it after their watch had finished.

“Yeah, but the boss said if there was nothing by the fourth day, we can stop coming here,”

“And do _what_?”

Anderson was surprised by how hard his colleague’s voice was. “I thought you were bored by this,”

“Yeah, but if we’re coming here every day, at least we have _something_ to do.” The guard tapped his fingers on the butt of his gun. “If we didn’t have this, we’d be tapping pens back at HQ,”

“I’d take that over _this_ ,” Anderson muttered. “At least it’s warm at HQ,”

“True.” The other guard fumbled in an inner pocket for something. “Want a fag?”

Anderson considered this for a moment. He’d been smoke-free for three weeks, but boredom and stress had pushed his thoughts to taking up the habit again. “Yeah. Go on, then.” _Just one wouldn’t hurt._

The other guard lit one and passed it over to Anderson before lighting another for himself, drawing on it and exhaling in relief, checking his watch. _Five hours and forty-five minutes to go._

~x~

“We should probably keep moving,” John mused.

Sherlock didn’t respond, either engrossed in his notes or somewhere in his mind palace.

“I said that we should probably keep moving. Less chance of being found by the FCD if we keep switching locations.”

“Ssh!”

The hiss was rather abrupt. Normally, John would have raised his eyebrows in exasperation and left Sherlock to it. However, today was not a normal day and as a consequence, John would not put up with it. He knelt in front of Sherlock and waited. He was in his mind palace, and it wouldn’t take long to disturb him from it.

A short time later, Sherlock opened his eyes and gazed down at John, a scowl on his face. “ _What?_ ”

John glanced at his watch. “Three minutes and twenty-five seconds. Must be a new record, right?”

“Unfortunately so, yes. Though given my…” Sherlock faltered, the words suddenly dying in his throat. He was about to say it; about to admit that he had been shaken by the news of the destruction of his home city and it was affecting his usual knife-edge keenness of thought. It was as if the chemical weapons had struck _him_ , too – or to be more accurate, had struck his mind palace. There was no serious damage, but what had been caused was noticeable.

John sensed this and put his hand on Sherlock’s knee, squeezing it in a weak attempt at comfort.

Sherlock stiffened minutely before relaxing. “What did you say?” he asked, voice a hoarse croak.

“I said that we need to keep moving. So the FCD don’t find us.” John’s voice was gentler, the annoyance gone. He’d sensed the weakening of Sherlock’s defences, as Sherlock knew he would.

He nodded. “There are five buildings that are not blocks of flats left standing and whole in Cadera.”

“The library is one of them, I know that much,”

“If we went there or to one of the other buildings, we would be found quicker.”

“Unless we made a route to one of them,” John suggested. “Stayed in different places, but heading for one of the buildings,”

Sherlock’s face lit up and he sat up from being slumped against the chair. “Of course. The more time that passes, the more the FCD will believe that we have completely escaped. Then, the less they will search for us. Eventually we will find somewhere to stay that is not so cold.”

John nodded, unable to say anything either as a reaction, correction or addition, given that this was exactly what he’d been thinking. “Shall we go, then?”

Sherlock nodded and sprang into action, sweeping up all the papers and equipment on the makeshift desk made from rubble.

~x~

**_FCD headquarters, three days later_ **

“This is ridiculous,” one of the agents said, frustration evident in her voice. “It’s been five days. We’ve looked in every district in Cadera and _still_ no reported sightings of either Watson or the curly,”

“There have been longer searches for more in the past,” another agent pointed out.

The agent dropped her head. “You don’t understand. This is the largest group of curlies that have been sighted in Cadera since the war began. The entire media is watching us. If we’re able to catch this last one, think of how much our profile would go up,”

“I thought our profile was already high?”

“So did I…”

“I’m confused.”

“Ssh!” The first agent sighed. The hubbub of voices soon quietened. She looked up at the group of agents clustered around the Caderan map unfurled on table, which was covered in red slashes that marked the checked city districts. “In truth, people think we’re a joke. They laugh at us behind our backs. They don’t take us seriously. Naturally, the government has suppressed negative reports of themselves and any other affiliated departments, a.k.a. us. _Capito?_ ”

Silence fell around the room.

“Good,” the female agent barked, continuing in a softer tone. “We’ll give it two more days. Two more days, and then we stop hunting. Before you ask whether this has been approved by upstairs – it has. If any of you get tip-offs after the two days have passed, you retain permission to follow them up.”

Mumblings of understanding bubbled from the agents around the desk.

“Right.” The female agent leaned over the map once more. “Where haven’t we checked? Not in terms of districts, but neighbourhoods. We want to zero in.”

“Detto is one of them,” one of the agents responded, lightning-quick for fear of being told off again.

“That’s where the hospital was, correct?”

“Yes, ma’am,”

The female agent took a blue pen and drew a ring around the Detto neighbourhood. As the night wore on, more neighbourhoods were supplied. Eventually, the number of blue rings matched the number of red slashes on the map.

“Which is the closest neighbourhood to us?”

“Detto, ma’am,”

The female agent checked her watch. “That’s where we start. Watson and the curly should be asleep by now, so if they’re there, it’ll be easy to take them. Let’s go.”


	36. Chapter Thirty-Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gaaahh. Sorry for the lack of updates, but life's been pretty busy and my creative energy has not been in a steady flow, so I haven't been able to update regularly. Since we're coming to the end of the story, regular updates won't be a thing, but I aim to get at least one chapter posted a week. We'll see how things go. Enjoy this one. ~Mika

**_Meanwhile_ **

The darkness of the alley seemed to be alive and oppressive to John. Beside him, Sherlock thrummed with adrenaline, the kind of knife-edge excitement that made John feel like he was right on the precipice of something. Quite what he was on the edge of, he didn’t know.

Sherlock had told him that the mastermind behind the Tourist Killer cases would be here. How he had pinpointed that, John didn’t know, but he trusted that Sherlock was right. He didn’t really have much of a choice in the matter.

Footsteps approached the pair, stopping just before the boundary of the orange light cast by the streetlamp. John’s hand automatically flew to the inner pocket on his jacket, senses over-keen from the atmosphere. Sherlock’s hand stopped him by the wrist just as he realised there was no gun nestled in his jacket.

“You’re the new client. You on the left,” a heavily-accented voice spoke from the darkness.

Sherlock swallowed back his own accent before replying. “Yes, I am. I sampled some of your product from another supplier recently.”

“I see. How much you want?”

John tried to place the accent, but couldn’t. It sounded like a Suderican city, that much was true. No doubt Sherlock already knew; he could probably tell the bloke’s exact address from his accent.

“Come closer and I’ll tell you,” Sherlock replied. John’s back straightened, skin prickling from the tension in the air. “I prefer to look my vendors in the eye.”

A pause followed, one that seemed to go on forever. There was some shuffling in the darkness, as if the man’s feet were attempting to make the decision for him. Finally, he took two strides forward, placing himself squarely into the harsh orange glare of the streetlight. He looked up, first at John and then at Sherlock, a shocked expression on his face upon seeing the second man’s face.

“You! I know you! You’re – ”

“Yes, I know exactly who I am. Spare me,” Sherlock replied cuttingly. “And you are Tomas Nuñez of Ru Calanos in Scomoda, Sudericana. You lost your only child to cocaine, albeit a tainted batch that resulted in a heart attack, when he was on holiday in Occidettalo. Since then, you’ve been on a vendetta…”

John watched Nuñez’s face as Sherlock laid out his life in rapid Caderan with the cut-glass accent he’d adopted whenever he had dealings with people outside of John. He watched as the Scomodan’s face sagged in defeat, betrayal and hurt etched in its lined features. Nuñez’s face seemed to melt like one in an old film he’d seen as a kid.

All of a sudden, it snapped back to normal and Nuñez pulled out a knife seemingly from nowhere, striding towards Sherlock, who responded by knocking it out the man’s hand and headbutting him in one fluid motion. A loud crack resounded in the alleyway and for a terrifying heartbeat, John couldn’t tell whether it was from Sherlock’s or Nuñez’s head. It was only clarified when he saw the dazed expression on the Scomodan’s face.

The Caderan-Avanzian’s own face was turned away, breaking into a run. As if on cue, John broke into a run behind Sherlock. It wasn’t long before the Scomodan followed, footsteps a lot heavier and slower. John felt his breath suffocate him, muscles on fire as he and Sherlock tore through the broken streets, pursued heavily by the dealer.

Suddenly, Sherlock rounded a sharp corner, yanking John after him and slamming him against the wall. The Scomodan charged straight past the pair, screeching to a halt and looking around in confusion. John picked up a hefty-feeling brick and snuck up to the Scomodan, the weight of the brick pulling his arm back. He brought it forward and whacked the brick on the man’s head, knocking him out instantly, crumpling to the floor like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Sherlock swooped down and yanked the man’s arms back, wrapping them around a broken beam and handcuffing the man to it. The pair left instantly, fleeing the crime scene back to their hideaway.

“That…” John huffed once they returned, “was the most _ridiculous_ thing I’ve ever done,”

“And you invaded Avanzia,” Sherlock pointed out, his accent returning.

The pair leaned against the wall, laughter coming out in huffs. John was too out of breath to argue back, sliding down the wall to land in the bundle of quilts. Sherlock soon joined him, almost toppling over onto the older man. They pressed their bodies closer together, faces millimetres apart. Without hesitating another minute, their lips met, a chaste kiss growing and deepening into something fiery, partly charged by adrenaline and partly by each other’s respective presences. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s waist, pulling him flush against his body, craving that touch, that affirmation that they were both alive and – particularly – that John was real.

They eventually parted, the pair flushed and panting, John’s trousers in particular uncomfortably tight.

Sherlock nodded towards the prominent bulge. “Do you want me to…how do you say…take care of that?”

John looked at Sherlock. “Do _you_ want to take care of this?”

Sherlock dipped his head as he searched for the words. He was barely sure he knew how to phrase them in Avanzian, let alone Caderan. In his mind, he picked up and discarded words as if they were cards, finding the sentence structures in which he could put them. He tried and tested every word he found, parts of a formula in which he had to –

“I’m back.”

Sherlock opened his eyes to see John. Even though there was very little light in their hiding place, he knew immediately what had happened. _Flushed face – diluted pupils –_ “You…took care of that yourself.”

“Just didn’t want you to feel like you had to.” John shrugged, head swinging side to side, his right hand twitching in impatience and glinting a little. Eventually, he leaned over and turned over a corner of one of the quilts, wiping his hand on it before replacing the corner.

Sherlock didn’t know what to say in response. Not wishing to let the silence carry on for too long, he cleared his throat. “So you did not kill Nuñez.”

“No. Just knocked him out for a few hours. He’ll have a splitting headache and a scalp wound, but no lasting damage.”

“And yet you killed Waters when he posed a threat to my life,” Sherlock pointed out.

John stilled. _I wish you wouldn’t do that._ “That was different. He was dangerous in a different way to Nuñez. I think you know why as much as I do.”

Sherlock did indeed know. He pulled out the mobile he’d gotten from Mycroft and glanced at the time. Adrenaline still surged through his body despite the hour and the time lapsed after they had returned to their hiding spot, albeit mere traces of it. At the same time, he had no new case to work on to keep the natural drug in his veins and no cigarettes to replace the frenzy in his mind. The slow rate at which the Tourist Killer case had been solved was unsatisfactory, leaving him more fractious than ever. Exhaling through his nose, he removed some layers of clothing and slid back into the makeshift bed with John, pressing himself against the army doctor as much as he could before grabbing his arm and pulling it over his waist.

“Oh.” John chuckled in surprise at Sherlock initiating the contact for the first time, adjusting his arm so it fitted more snugly around the lithe body pressed against him. “You like that, don’t you.”

“Mm,” Sherlock replied, attempting a non-committal tone, trying to relax.

John hummed in satisfaction. The two lay there in silence for the rest of the night, sharing blankets and bodily heat, John successfully succumbing to sleep before the dawn broke. Despite their diverse states, they were united in remaining completely unaware of the squadron of FCD agents stomping through a neighbourhood two districts east of their hiding spot.


	37. Chapter Thirty-Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I finished drafting this story. I finished it. Completely. It was pretty shocking to write "THE END" after the last chapter, especially given how long I'd spent on it. The last four chapters will be posted daily, including this one, so the story will come to an end on Tuesday. Fwoof. ~Mika
> 
> EDIT: Also, remember Ella from [this chapter?](http://archiveofourown.org/works/913167/chapters/2058986) She's the Ella at the end.

A long, heavy silence fell over the FCD agents when they arrived at the wrecked hospital in the Detto neighbourhood at two a.m., around the time John and Sherlock were settling down to sleep two districts west. The only sounds were those made by the unsynchronised breathing from the individuals of the group.

“Right, they’re not here,” the female agent from before quickly asserted before disappointment could settle over the group completely. “Check everywhere else in the perimeter.”

“Including the second floor?”

“No. I wouldn’t try that if I were you; the stairs are half bombed-out. Just the ground floor will do. They wouldn’t take the risk of the second floor anyway.”

“Got it.” The agent that raised the question disappeared to check one of the remaining areas. The female agent made her way into what was left of the building, searching for an area of it that didn’t already have an FCD agent going through it with a fine-toothed comb. There were a fair few, given that this particular group was moderately small by departmental standards. She stretched and stopped once she found a vacant space, commencing her search from the corner furthest away from her and moving right, studying each brick and burned-out beam for any scrap of information that told her Watson and the curly were here at one point.

She had almost finished searching (an office, she worked out, going by the damaged furniture that was left) when a yell of triumph pierced the night, quickly smothered by panicked shushes from the other agents.

She straightened up and turned. “Who yelled?”

“I did, ma’am.” The voice was muffled until the agent it came from straightened up. “Me. I found something.”

“What did you find?” the female agent asked, picking her way over remnants of walls, rubbles and broken furniture to join the agent that had spoken.

“This.” The agent held a scrap of something very delicately between his fingers. It fluttered in the early morning breeze, barely visible in the little light available to them.

The female agent squinted. “What’s this?”

“A scrap of material from a shirt.” Excitement underlined the agent’s tone.

The female agent sighed, counting to ten slowly in her head until her irritation subsided. “So? There’s plenty of that around. People died in the bombings of the last few years, you know.”

“Yeah, but _look_. There’s no singing around the edges. And it couldn’t have come from anywhere else since it was trapped amongst the rubble.”

“It didn’t necessarily come from either Watson or the curly. Could have come from anyone hiding here.”

The agent scrunched his face up briefly. “True, but it’s clean enough to suggest that it could have come from their clothing.”

“ _Could_ have. Not _did_.” The female agent pinched her nose.

“It’s a start,” one of the other agents grunted in irritation. “You’re always so negative about everything, even when it produces results.”

“Which is, might I remind you, a blue fucking moon occurrence,” the female agent snapped back. “Now, come on. They’re not here. I’m calling time for the night. Go home, everyone.”

~x~

**_Nine hours later_ **

“Am bored.”

“You’re bored?” John looked up from his journal, pausing in his writings.

Sherlock gave John a particularly scathing look. “Yes. No cases.”

John gave him a curious look. “You broke into a police database last month. I thought there’d be a thousand cold cases for you to have a go at,”

“‘Have a go’,” Sherlock muttered, snorting almost derisively. “Police do not keep case details in their database.”

“Not even the solved ones?”

Sherlock uttered a small ‘you’re-an-idiot’ sigh and closed his eyes. “The solved ones, yes. The cold ones, no.”

“Well, don’t bloody take it out on me. It’s hardly my fault there’s no line of cases waiting for you to solve.” John bent his head down again, continuing to scribble in that notebook of his. The scratching of the pen grated on Sherlock’s nerves.

He hissed something in Avanzian that sounded to John like a curse word. “I need cases, John. I need the work, it keeps busy my mind. From where do you think I would get another case?”

John noticed the errors in Sherlock’s speech. They were most obvious when the younger man was tired and even more so now, when he was embroiled in frustration; suffering from cabin fever in his own mind. John never pointed them out, however. He didn’t want to humiliate Sherlock, amongst other things.

He slammed his journal shut with the soft, hollow-sounding _whump_ that thick books made. “Tell you what.”

“Tell me what? What will you tell me?”

“It’s a colloquial figure of speech. Means ‘I have a suggestion’.” John inhaled the frosty morning air.

Sherlock half-turned. “What will you suggest?”

“Well, we’re close to the library. It’s still intact, which means it’s still full of books. Books in Caderan.” John’s voice was gentle, encouraging. “You said you wanted to find out more about Caderan and Paneropese history and how they came to be called what they’re called now. The library is perfect, and it’ll be more sheltered than this.”

Sherlock took all of this into consideration. “You are Caderan, no? You will not tell me about all of that?”

John opened his hands. “Modern history was never my strongest point at school. I stopped studying it as soon as I could.”

“When you went to university,” Sherlock added.

John nodded. “All I remember from it is that in the twenty-first century, Regressa attempted to recreate the empire it had in the twentieth century. Following that, there was a huge war in which Cadera was involved. After it ended, the government passed a law that History was compulsory in all schools until the age of eighteen.”

Sherlock frowned. “Maybe the hope was that students would learn from history and its mistakes,”

John nodded in agreement, throwing his hands up. “Worked out well, didn’t it?”

“It did not.”

“Sarcasm, Sherlock. Remember what I told you?”

“Yes.” Sherlock locked his jaw, not wishing to admit he frequently missed these things. “Let us go, then.”

“Hang on a sec, we need to get our stuff together.”

Sherlock nodded brusquely, diving down to the ground and scooping as much as he could in his arms. Once the two were sure the area was wiped clean, so to speak, they headed off towards the library, no more than five minutes from their hiding spot. It was deserted and dark, although John was surprised to find that the automatic doors still worked. The subtle temperature change also took him by surprise.

“The heating is on still,” Sherlock mused, saying what John was thinking. “This is good.”

“We’re still keeping the blankets, though,” John interjected before Sherlock could say anything about them. The younger man inclined his head but said nothing, dropping behind John as he weaved his way between the shelves, searching for a suitable corner in which to set up camp. He found one right at the back of the library that comprised of the restricted section, ducking under the rope that was hung across the entrance. Together, they set up camp, the motions quick and automatic after spending so long on the run.

John was just finishing when he noticed Sherlock had disappeared again. He poked his head in the gap that led to the section they were in. “Sherlock?”

“I am here,” came a disembodied voice from somewhere in the History section.

John made his way towards the source of the voice, eventually coming upon Sherlock sitting cross-legged, engrossed in a book John recognised as one detailing Cadera in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. He also noticed that although Sherlock read with a speed far beyond someone who’d only been learning Caderan for two and a half months, he paused every so often, raking every letter of a particularly difficult word.

“Want some help with that?” John offered.

“No,” Sherlock immediately returned, a hint of irritation in his voice. He shuffled across the floor, turning his back to John.

John sighed, raising his eyebrows, moving to sit beside Sherlock. “Come here, you stubborn git. Give me the book.”

~x~

In a concealed room in the library, Ella McDonald watched the two men. She knew one of them was an Avanzian and John had been illegally concealing him since he arrived. She’d heard all about it from Mary – how the FCD were hunting them and had been for the last two or three weeks, but they had eluded them every time.

Even though Ella was in prime position to call the FCD and report that the two men were camping out in the library, she didn’t have the heart to do so. She’d known John for years, given that they’d gone to the same university. Despite the rumours that had circulated at the time, they never once dated, primarily due to her total lack of interest in that area of life. They’d drifted apart when John was drafted into the army but got back in touch when he was discharged. Although the library was technically shut down, she’d gotten the keys from the caretaker in exchange for cigarettes. She kept the electricity and heating running for anyone who wanted to use it as a hiding place.

Relieved that they were safe, she put her jacket on and grabbed the bunch of keys on her left, locking the room up behind her.


	38. Chapter Thirty-Seven

Nuñez woke up the next morning with a splitting headache and aching arms, as predicted by John. He tried to work his hands out of the cuffs, but they were too tight. He swore in Scomodan Perdese, shifting his body, attempting to bring relief to his stiff and freezing limbs. A few people passed him, staring as they went. This only served to anger Nuñez, who was understandably keen to get back to his Caderan shack. It was no warmer than the ambience he was currently trapped in, but he had blankets into which he could burrow himself into and more importantly, _food_. His stomach rumbled at the very thought of the word.

“Hungry?” a voice asked, seemingly from nowhere.

It sounded like it belonged to a well-rested, well-fed Caderan – in other words, everything Nuñez was not. Nuñez snapped back to reality and glared at the source. Male, somewhere in his thirties. A member of some government agency, going by his uniform. “What’s it to you?”

The man put his hands up, palms facing the Scomodan. “Hang on, I only asked. How did you get into that position? Did you piss off an FCD officer?”

“No. Got into trouble with an Avanzian,” Nuñez grumbled, tugging at the cuffs.

The officer stopped. “Did you say an Avanzian?”

“Yes. Why?”

The man shook his head. “You don’t keep up with the news, do you?”

“It doesn’t really exist now, if my memories are good,”

“True. Ah.” The officer took a deep breath. “Seventy Avanzians were smuggled into the country almost three months ago. We’ve caught all but one of them. Are you sure it was an Avanzian you saw?”

Nuñez grunted. “I’m sure. If you take me back to your station, I am happy to give you all the information on him,”

The officer peered at him. “Are _you_ in this country legally?”

“Living here since 2299. The paperwork is back in my house.” Nuñez had heard this question more times than he could count over the last eleven years and it had stopped pissing him off eight years ago. “I’ve been in this spot since last night and I’m cold and hungry. Still willing to give you information.”

The officer nodded, finally taking him seriously. “Right. Well, I’m not an FCD official, but I can take you to someone who is.”

Relief surged through Nuñez at the thought of being in a warmer room, even if he wouldn’t get any food. The officer darted behind the beam he was tied to and picked the lock on the cuffs, freeing the Scomodan within seconds. He automatically rubbed his wrists, clinging onto the beam for support as he stood up. His legs protested at the change in position and he stretched them out until he was sure he could stand unaided.

“Come on,” the officer said, beckoning Nuñez. “Let’s go.”

~x~

**_Caderan City Library_ **

The book Sherlock had found was still open the next morning, albeit on a political map of twenty-first century Paneropa. He was fascinated by how few borders there were in comparison to the modern-day country. Each enclosed area was labelled, and Sherlock could match every one of those names to their modern-day counterparts. _Regressa. Tereno. Janucca._ He searched for Cadera, but couldn’t find it.

He turned to John and shook him awake. He had fallen asleep sitting up some hours ago and was now drooling on his shirt. “John,”

“Uh?” John murmured, rubbing his eyes. “Mmwhat.”

“I can’t find Cadera.”

John frowned. “What?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “On this map. I can’t find Cadera.”

John blinked at the open book. “‘s because it was the only modern day city that wasn’t what was known three hundred years ago as a country.”

“Where is it?”

John scanned the map, pointing to the appropriate spot. “There.”

“It was…” Sherlock peered at the small print. “It was called London?”

John nodded. “Yep, it was called London three hundred years ago. It’s not as big as it is now, of course, and the main government was the entire country’s rather than just London’s. Pretty incredible when you think about it.”

Sherlock shrugged in a way that voiced a noiseless disagreement.

“Okay, maybe not to you,” John clarified reluctantly, “but to most of us mortals, it’s fascinating how a few centuries can change so much.”

“And that’s Regressa?”

John nodded. “Yep, Russia is now Regressa. It had some sort of empire in the twentieth century, which it tried to forcefully regain in the twenty-first. Rubaria – the United States – responded, some other Paneropan countries backed the two and war was declared.”

Sherlock peered at him. “I thought you said you did much not like modern history,”

“No, but this has been drilled into Caderan children since primary school,” John explained. “It’s something we’re reminded of every year, whether through television documentaries or remembrance days.” He straightened out his legs, resting them on the carpet. “What about Avanzia?”

Sherlock took a deep breath. “I know it was called Afghanistan when Cadera was London. Idiocra was Iraq. That is everything.”

“Let me guess, you deleted most of it?”

“I did not recognise it as being important.”

“You didn’t think it was important,” John clarified.

Sherlock shook his head.

“And now?”

“Now?”

“Do you think it’s important?”

“Not really, no.” Sherlock swallowed back the words that were lying on his tongue. _History is not important, but_ you _are._

John chuckled, reaching for the bag of food. “Here. Have something to fill your stomach now that you’ve filled your mind.” He tossed Sherlock a croissant, which he caught without looking, tearing open the wrapper and biting into it. John also chose something for himself, and the two demolished their food in seconds before returning to the books in the library. As the day passed, they worked through the entire History section and some of the Fiction section (or John did – Sherlock stated he didn’t believe in wasting time on it). Neither of them were aware of the planes flying overhead, Avanzian, Rubarian and Caderan alike. They also remained unaware of one particular plane flying more slowly than the others, opening its hatch doors. In short, neither of them heard anything until the alarm in the library sounded.

~x~

**_FCD headquarters_ **

The rush of warmth hit Nuñez and the officer as soon the doors opened. Another person got up to greet them once they entered. Nuñez saw that it was a man wearing an FCD uniform and a disbelieving look on his face.

“Redwyn, what have you got here? You know we don’t deal with petty crime – ”

“Anderson, you and the FCD are still hunting the Avanzian from the truck a couple of months ago, correct?” Redwyn asked, sharply interrupting the other man.

The officer the man called Anderson hesitated, body language cautious. “Yes. Why?”

Redwyn stepped aside to reveal Nuñez, who automatically crossed his arms across his torso. “This man says he ran into trouble with one recently.”

Now Anderson was more alert, staring intently at Nuñez. “How recently?”

Redwyn nodded at Nuñez, who stammered in his answer. “Uh, last night.”

Anderson nodded. “Thanks, Redwyn. Leave him with me. I’ll take it from here.”

Redwyn gave a short nod and walked off. Nuñez watched him go for a minute before Anderson spoke again.

“Come with me.”

An order, given without breaks or hesitation in his voice. Nuñez swallowed, suddenly nervous, but doing as the officer said anyway. An iceberg had formed in his stomach. He may not have had many dealings with the government since he arrived in Cadera, but he had heard about the FCD and its officers.

He had a horrible feeling he would not walk back out through the front doors of the organisation’s headquarters.


	39. Chapter Thirty-Eight

Anderson led Nuñez down two flights of stairs to a small interview room. The officer gestured for him to sit, which he did, tucking his hands under his armpits in an attempt to warm himself up.

Anderson looked at him sympathetically. “You hungry?”

Nuñez nodded vigorously, shivering.

“Wait here. I’ll see if we’ve got anything to eat. And a blanket, too.”

“‘kay,” Nuñez croaked, watching Anderson disappear from the room. He looked around the entire room. It was a very stereotypical interview room, sparsely furnished save for the table and two chairs, one of which he was sat on. He was surprised at the lack of one-way mirror, whether on the wall behind him or on one of the side walls.

Anderson returned quickly, a steaming mug in one hand, blanket slung over one arm and a recorder dangling from his belt. He set the mug down in front of Nuñez, handing him the blanket. Nuñez wrapped it around his shoulders, sipping from the mug. Although the liquid inside tasted disgusting, the welcoming warmth spread through his body. Anderson took the seat opposite him and placed the recorder on the desk, turning it on.

“Interview time and date: oh-nine-twenty-seven, Friday 31st July 2310. Interviewee name and place of birth…”

Nuñez cleared his throat, realising he was expected to answer. His head throbbed dully, the blood on the back of his head still sticky. “Tomas Nuñez. Scomoda.”

Anderson gave a small nod. “Interviewee date of migration…”

“3rd February 2299,”

“Interview topic: information regarding the approximate whereabouts of the last missing Avanzian.” Anderson stopped speaking and leaned back, looking directly at Nuñez. “When did you encounter the…Avanzian?”

 _You want to say ‘curly’._ Nuñez swallowed. “Last night at eleven-thirty.”

“What happened, exactly?”

Nuñez couldn’t reveal that the Avanzian had worked out that he was responsible for murders all over the world. Luckily, he did indeed have a cover story precisely for this sort of occasion. “I was walking home. There were two of them. I think the other was Caderan. The Avanzian attacked and I fought back, but he was like mad dog. I stopped fighting, pretended to be unconscious. He and the other one dragged me away, tied me to a wooden beam.”

Anderson frowned. “Why would they do something like that?”

Nuñez shrugged. “Maybe it was so he could get away. So I would not try to find him.”

“That makes sense.” Anderson rolled his shoulders. “Where exactly did this happen? Which district?”

“It was the Biurin district. I cannot remember exactly where. Before they left me, they had said something about going to the library.”

Nuñez had completely fabricated the last part, but it made Anderson sit up as if he’d been given an electric shock. “The library. That’s it.” He cleared his throat, regaining some sense of professionalism. “So concludes this interview. Time: oh-nine forty-nine.” The recorder switched off with a _click_ and Anderson hooked it back on his belt. “Thank you, Mr. Nuñez.”

“Pleasure.” Nuñez stayed where he was, fear freezing him in place. Long beats of silence passed in the room.

Anderson frowned. “You don’t want to go? I mean, I know it’s warm here, but surely you want to go home?”

Nuñez narrowed his eyes slightly. “You’re not going to shoot me?”

“Shoot you?” Anderson laughed. “Me? No. Other officers might have, but I don’t. We’re not technically supposed to, anyway.” He unlocked the door and opened it, gesturing for Nuñez to leave. Wordless with shock, Nuñez obeyed, handing the blanket back to Anderson and leaving.

Once the Scomodan was out of sight, Anderson closed the door and strode up the corridor to where he knew the squadron of officers specifically chosen for this task were meeting at that present moment. He knocked on the door, entering as soon as he was granted permission.

“Yes?”

“An informant has come forward with information about Watson and the Avanzian.”

“Is it _useful_ information?” The voice managed to sound sharp and fatigued at the same time.

Anderson nodded. “They’re in the Biurin district. The informant told me that the two talked about heading to the library. This was last night, so they must be in there now.”

Immediately, the collective spines of the exhausted squadron straightened, whether spurred by the information itself or the promise of rest after three weeks of endless searching. Anderson moved out the way as they poured out of the room, running down the narrow corridor in a group. He followed calmly behind them. Despite this, excitement bubbled in his stomach at what this might mean for all of them.

He couldn’t wait to see the curly’s face once he was dragged in, assuming the FCD didn’t shoot it on the spot.

~x~

**_The library_ **

John and Sherlock were still flicking idly through the books when the alarm went off. John’s head snapped straight up from the book, dread pooling in his stomach. He hadn’t heard that alarm this close to him since he was in Avanzia.

“Sherlock,” he said, voice trembling only slightly, “we have to go.”

“But we just got here last night!” Sherlock protested.

“This alarm.” John pointed up. “Do you know what this means?”

Sherlock’s face seemed to drain of colour. “A bomb.”

“Good. Leave the book and let’s go. We need to get out of here.” John tried to keep the panic out of his voice, but was unsuccessful in doing so.

“I’m nearly _finished_ ,” Sherlock protested, yelping as John grabbed him and tried to make a run for it. Under the blare of the alarm, he heard the whistle of the bomb, the sound growing steadily louder. His mouth was dry, heart in his throat. He barely registered that Sherlock had by then realised the gravity of the situation and had also commenced running, strides long and graceful.

The doors were closed, and John prayed that the electricity was still on and they would open in time. Sherlock reached them first and thankfully, they did open, albeit slowly. The Avanzian squeezed through them once the gap was big enough for him to fit through it, waiting for John.

“ _Go!_ ” John tried to yell, the word emerging instead as a kind of broken wheeze, his lungs burning for oxygen. “Don’t worry about me. Go!”

Sherlock saw John mouth the words but stayed where he was, feet rooted to the ground. After everything John had done for him over the last two months and three weeks, he would not leave him to die like this. After what felt like an eternity, John raced through the doors and joined Sherlock.

Just as he did, the bomb hit the library, the blast sending tonnes of rubble, wood, wiring, slate and books everywhere. Instinctively, John and Sherlock dived to the ground as soon as the bomb hit, the former protecting the latter. Something landed on Sherlock’s leg, sending a wave of pain up it. He slammed his jaws together, suppressing the cry that wanted to emerge from his mouth.

It was only once the rubble had stopped falling that John moved off Sherlock, rolling on the ground to smother the flames spouting from the back of his jacket before attending to the younger man. “Are you okay?”

“No,” Sherlock grunted, jerking his leg. It was trapped under some rubble – a piece of wall or shelf, he couldn’t tell through the searing pain that was encasing his body. He knew he’d been struck in other places, too, going by the whispered ‘oh shit’ from John.

“Don’t move,” John instructed, moving to the section of wall that was crushing Sherlock’s leg. He heard synchronised footsteps to his left and saw a mass of black through the smoke that obscured almost everything. He glanced back at Sherlock, who was bleeding from a head wound, eyes fluttering closed. “No, stay with me. Keep your eyes on me, can you do that? Can you do that for me?”

Panic suffused John’s throat, adrenaline and fear replacing the blood in his veins. Using those as supports, he grabbed the heavy concrete and pushed it, lifting it off Sherlock’s mangled leg. After a short struggle, he managed to completely flip it over. It landed with a muffled _whump_ on the ground, and John moved back to Sherlock’s head, sliding a hand under his shoulders, helping him sit up.

“Can you sit up? Does it hurt anywhere else? Where else have you been struck?” John knew that he was asking questions too quickly, but he had to keep Sherlock talking.

“John…” Sherlock moaned, the name slurred. He successfully managed to sit up, although he was still wobbly. John gave the head wound a quick check – it was only superficial, but he would need hospital attention for his leg. He kept one hand supporting Sherlock’s back, the other stroking his curls lightly. “You’re safe now. Don’t be scared. I won’t leave you.”

“No, Dr. Watson, you won’t. Not for a while, at least.”

John turned as best as he could without letting Sherlock fall. The man was now unconscious, which meant supporting his weight becoming a little harder. He raked his gaze up the legs that were in front of him, heart sinking as he recognised the uniforms. An agent stepped forward, a mass of hazy dark grey through the smoke. John coughed on reflex, body attempting to fight off the smoke working its way into his lungs. He’d expected this day; both he and Sherlock had since they met.

Now it was here, it was even more terrifying than he could have ever predicted.


	40. Chapter Thirty-Nine

The agent who had stepped forward crouched down so that the two were eye level. A female, John was surprised to see, noting with relief that it wasn’t Mary. After all that she’d put him through, to find out that she was working for the FCD would be the cherry on top of a mouldy cake.

“There you are,” she said with a voice like ice, already adding to the cold of the winter day. “You’ve caused a lot of trouble. Took us a while to find you, but we did.”

 _Yeah, because as a government-approved organisation, you’re actually pretty shit and unethical._ John bit the words back, not wishing to antagonise any more than his presence seemingly did.

The female stood up. “You’re coming with us. Don’t worry, it won’t be a long, arduous process. Quick slap-around, quick shots to the head. It’ll all be done by – ”

She was interrupted by a voice yelling “ma’am!”

John heard her sigh, saw her turn to the source of the voice. “What is it?”

John took this moment to pull Sherlock against his torso so his body was supporting the weight, rather than just the one arm. He wrapped those arms around Sherlock’s unconscious shoulders, knowing with absolute certainty it would be the last opportunity he’d have to do this. He buried his face in the young man’s curls, whispering a previously-unspoken truth into them before turning his head back towards the squadron of agents.

The female officer who had first spoken turned to John. Her mouth was drawn in a thin line, her expression most displeased. “Well, Dr. Watson, it seems that you’ve still got a shred of luck. We’ve had orders to take you and the Avanzian – ”

“Sherlock,” John said quietly, so quietly even he wasn’t sure if he’d said it aloud or not.

The woman leaned forward. “Sorry?”

“His name is Sherlock,” John repeated, voice louder and hard with fury. He uncrossed his arms and leaned back on them. “Not ‘it’, not ‘the Avanzian’. He has a name. _Use_ it.”

The woman huffed. “We’ve been ordered to take you and… _Sherlock_ to the nearest hospital. Someone else will deal with you there.”

The fear in John’s stomach only lessened a little. He watched as two agents lifted Sherlock from his torso and carried him between them, the weight loss feeling strange. Another agent helped him up, although he protested that it was unnecessary. The rest of the agents dissipated, muttering in disappointment.

Once they were at the hospital, the squadron left. Relieved at their departure, John watched as Sherlock was wheeled away to an operating theatre. He followed the gurney as far as he could go before he was firmly, albeit gently, told to stay in the waiting room until the surgery was completed. He remained there the entire time, waving away other doctors who insisted on treating his own minor abrasions, though he did let them see him for dust and smoke inhalation. He returned to his place in the waiting room after he was treated, becoming increasingly nervous as time passed. To exacerbate this further, the later it got, the more the nervousness was replaced with fatigue.

He was jerked awake by a voice. He hadn’t even realised he’d fallen asleep. “Mm? Yes? What?”

“Sorry to disturb you, Doctor Watson, but the man you brought in – ”

“Sherlock,”

The nurse nodded, hesitant. “Sherlock is out of surgery.”

John breathed in relief. “Where is he?”

“He’s been moved to the recovery room. I’ll take you to him now.”

John followed the nurse to the room, nerves electric. He wondered who else would be there when he reached Sherlock’s bed; what would happen to them now, if they weren’t going to be disposed of by the FCD. He was anxious to reach Sherlock’s side as quickly as possible.

“Here he is,” the nurse said softly, stopping so suddenly John almost bumped into him. “If either of you need anything, let me know.”

“Thanks,” John rasped, pulling the curtain back and stepping into the cubicle, pulling it across again, completely concealing them. Sherlock was asleep, visibly exhausted and covered in wires and electrodes, most of which led to a heart monitor. John took a seat and gazed at Sherlock, time seeming to stop completely as he did so. After a while, he drew his chair closer, the screeching sound the legs made grating on his ears. He rested his hands lightly on the edge of the bed, unsure of himself. Finally, once he’d summed up enough confidence, he reached forward and took Sherlock’s hand in his, thumb rubbing the porcelain skin on the back of his hand. The warmth was comforting, and if the angle had been less awkward, John would have slipped his fingers through the gaps between Sherlock’s. As it was, he had to be content with simply holding it.

He didn’t know how long he sat like that, half-leaning over the bed holding Sherlock’s hand lightly. All he knew was that his vigil ended when Sherlock stirred, hand flexing under his own.

“Sherlock?” John ventured in a low voice.

“John…”

“I’m here.”

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered before opening them completely. “Oh, good. I thought you had gone. The FCD?”

John raised his head, considering how to phrase it. “They found us, but they’re not the ones dealing with us now. They said someone else would.”

Sherlock groaned, body slumping. “My brother.”

“Mycroft?”

“Mm. I am betting this is his work.”

“And you’d be correct, brother dear.” The smooth, Upper Caderan-accented voice preceded its owner. Both men in the cubicle were greeted by a slightly overweight man in a suit with an umbrella in his right hand and an air of smugness about him. “How else would you be here rather than in a dark cell, awaiting execution?”

“You must be Mycroft,” John said as Sherlock rolled his eyes, slipping his hand out of John’s.

“And you must be Doctor Watson,” Mycroft replied, his Avanzian roots making themselves known in the fricatives of his speech. “I gather my brother has told you about me,”

John shrugged. “Not everything, but enough.” He dropped his voice. “Are you the reason why the FCD took so long to find us?”

Mycroft smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “You _did_ help by being continuously on the move.” He moved to the foot of the bed. “I’ll speak in Caderan for the benefit of Doctor Watson, Sherlock. You are no longer a fugitive with an outdated passport – rather, a new one has been sent to your flat.”

John narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “My flat’s been declared open and uninhabitable. The front door’s completely broken.”

“I doubt that very much.” Mycroft had a smile on his face which suggested to John that he knew more than he was letting on. He continued speaking, addressing the pair of them. “I can also guarantee that you won’t be bothered by any section of the government, given that you’re now a legal Caderan citizen.”

“Crikey, you’re a regular _deus ex machine_ , aren’t you?” John muttered rhetorically.

Mycroft inclined his head. “I do what I can.”

“He does what he _wants_. He _is_ the Caderan government,” Sherlock interjected dryly.

“I occupy a minor position,” Mycroft countered.

“Boys,” John warned.

Mycroft cleared his throat. “As I was saying, neither of you will be harassed any further.” He looked at Sherlock, switching to Avanzian. “Although I’ll still be keeping an eye.”

“I wouldn’t expect any less,” Sherlock replied in his mother tongue. “After all, it is your true job, isn’t it? Watching your wayward brother. Ensuring he doesn’t relapse or get into any sort of legal trouble.”

Mycroft shook his head minutely, exasperated by the whole exchange. “Changing the subject, I see you care for Doctor Watson.”

“We met in dangerous circumstances. He took me in and helped me in numerous ways without asking for anything in return.” Sherlock replied, defensiveness colouring his tone.

“Just remember what I said about sentiment.”

“Oh, I do.” Sherlock lifted his head. “Chemical defect, losing side.”

“Good.”

Sherlock shifted restlessly in the bed. “Now, if you have nothing more to say...” He indicted to the corner of the curtain.

John watched the whole exchange not understanding a word, but relishing the comfort Sherlock clearly indulged in in speaking his native language. He’d never thought of Avanzian as a particularly beautiful language, but hearing Sherlock speak it brought a whole new perspective.

Mycroft stepped towards the edge of the curtain, switching back to Caderan. “I must go. Wrapping up a war is a complicated business, you know. Pleasure to meet you, John.” Without waiting for a response, he disappeared, leaving the cubicle curtain open.

John got up and closed it. “So _that’s_ your brother.”

“Yes, he is.” Sherlock wore the expression of a teenager harangued by their parents or teachers. “We may be seeing more of him in the future.”

“I don’t doubt it,” John replied wryly, sitting back down. The two men stared at each other for a moment before they broke the serious air of the cubicle with smiles, genuine ones this time. John was about to take Sherlock’s hand into his again when a voice spoke from outside the cubicle, asking permission to come in.

“Go ahead,” John called, quickly retracting his hand.

The owner of the voice entered the cubicle – another nurse, wearing a regretful expression on his face. “Sorry to interrupt, but visiting hours are over for the day.”

John looked at his watch. He’d completely lost track of time after the tumultuous day they’d had. “Of course. Sorry.” He got up, shoving his arms through his jacket. “Can we have a minute?”

“Of course.” The nurse disappeared.

John edged towards Sherlock’s bed. “I’ll be back tomorrow, okay?”

“I know,” Sherlock murmured in a low voice, slipping his hand into John’s. And he did know. He trusted John completely and knew him well enough to understand that he would keep his word.

John squeezed Sherlock’s hand in reply, bending down to kiss the younger man, once on the lips and once on the forehead. Reluctantly, he let go and left the cubicle and hospital without another word, pausing only to sign out. The walk through the evening air seemed less oppressive for the first time that he could remember, and when he reached his flat, he found that the door was fixed and the guards had gone. The flat itself had also been cleaned and restored with some of the furniture either replaced or upgraded. Although it didn’t quite feel like a home without Sherlock, he took comfort in the fact that he would certainly be home as soon as he was decreed fit enough to do so.

He was looking forward to live without fear and uncertainty hanging over his head. He was looking forward to carving out a life with Sherlock, even if it crashed and burned in the future. Living now seemed a veritable truth, rather than simply surviving.

He relished all of it.

**__**

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you go. Wow. Still can't quite believe I've actually finished this.
> 
> Everyone who's bookmarked, subbed, commented and kudos'd - thank you all so much. I mean that sincerely. Thank you for giving it a chance and for seeing it through to the end, if you're still here. Now, I'm going to work on a sequel to [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1149965), as I've practically been demanded to do so, wich chimes with my urge to write one anyway. ^_^
> 
> See you soon.
> 
> ~Mika


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